“They pushed him down.” Eurybates’s words are thick with spite. “One threatened him while the other hurt him with a rock.”
Agamemnon opens his mouth, but Clytemnestra is quicker. “It is your son who should be punished, Eurybates. He tried to shame the king’s daughters, and they defended themselves. Their bodies aren’t his to take. Now leave, and do not come here again.”
Eurybates storms out, his sons following close behind. Iphigenia and Electra linger, side by side, unsure of what to do.
“This is your fault,” Agamemnon tells Clytemnestra. “You treat them as if they are equal to men.”
She ignores him and stares at Iphigenia. “Why wasn’t Leon with you?”
“He was training the older boys.”
“Go and tell him what happened.” So he’ll never let you out of his sight.
Iphigenia hurries away, but Electra doesn’t move. She waits until her sister’s steps fade, then says, “It was her idea. I didn’t want to do it.”
“I do not care whose idea it was.” Clytemnestra already knows it must have been her older daughter’s doing. When Electra was little, Clytemnestra would often leave her by herself, as the other children made trouble and she had to run after them. While Orestes climbed trees and Chrysothemis threw stones, all Electra did was sit and stare, quiet. She rarely asked for help, and when she did, she didn’t approach it as a child would but rather with the shame of an adult who struggles to admit his own weakness.
“So you won’t punish us,” Electra says.
“No.”
Electra’s eyes gleam with danger. “Would you have done the same if Iphigenia wasn’t there?” she asks. “If it was just me?”
“Of course.”
Her daughter’s face tells her that Electra doesn’t believe her. “At least Father treats us all the same,” she says and walks away.
*
Once, a few years before, a Cretan envoy had praised Iphigenia’s beauty. They were dining in the hall, bowls of spiced meat and honeyed cheese spread in front of them.
“This is a woman who can make a goddess jealous,” he said. Iphigenia’s face broke into a smile, and the Cretan turned to Clytemnestra. “I imagine she is your favorite.”
“I do not have favorites,” Clytemnestra said, rocking Chrysothemis. Orestes hid his head under his mother’s arm, and Electra, a small, dark-haired child with serious eyes, sat rigidly, frowning.
The man smiled as if she had jested, and the precious gems on his earrings twinkled. “Everyone has.”
*
Clytemnestra rests her forehead against the painted griffins in the courtyard. At her feet, the frescoed blades of grass shimmer like snakeskin. The light is pale, wrapping its fingers around her body. Dust hangs in the air, suffocating.
“You cling to things too much,” she can hear Castor say in her head. “So when you lose them, you lose control.”
“You’d rather she let her daughters be flogged like commoners?” Polydeuces intervenes.
She does this often. Just stands in the courtyard and argues with her brothers in her head. Their voices are shadows, cool and faint, unreal if not for the comfort they bring her.
“We have all been whipped several times,” Castor points out.
And what good has it done to us? Clytemnestra thinks. Look at me. I am drowning in hatred.
“Your hatred consumes you,” Castor says gently. “But it also keeps you alive.”
The words make her remember her husband’s room, bright with lamps and torches despite the darkness of the night. The way she had stepped inside quietly, unseen by the guards and the dogs, her shadow stark on the walls. Her blade flashed in the light of the lamp, and Agamemnon had opened his eyes, feeling the metal against his skin. He could have pushed her away, if he wanted; he was stronger than her, but instead he said, “Here you are, consumed by your ever-burning hatred.” His throat was soft under the blade. “But you won’t do it. If I fall, the people of Mycenae will execute you.” He was right, and she had stood up, hands shaking. He had tilted his head, judged the way to hit her—she had no time to think—then grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the wall. When she could see again, the frescoed lion was red with her blood. “Your life with me has just begun,” he said, wiping her nose. The day after, she had woken with the sickness and known she was pregnant with Iphigenia.
These children I cling too much to are the only reasons I didn’t rip my husband’s head off fifteen years ago.
19
Violent Husband, Vengeful Wife
SOMETIMES SHE FINDS herself thinking about Tantalus and her baby, as much as she tries not to. The way Tantalus spoke, the world’s secrets in his words, and the way the baby stared at her at night when he was meant to sleep. How her husband laughed when the baby cried and the smells of spices drifted, curling in the air. Her heart clenches, pain flooding her mind. Is there any greater torment than love in the face of loss?
Memory is a strange thing, vicious. The more one wants to forget, the more one can’t help but remember. It is like a rat chewing at the skin, slowly and painfully—impossible to ignore.
“Pray to the gods,” everyone kept telling her after Tantalus and her son were murdered. But you don’t get rid of a rat by praying to the gods. You must kill it, poison it. And the gods can’t help you with that.
*
“What are you thinking about?”
A voice that drags her out of her memories. Clytemnestra turns, and Iphigenia is looking at her. She is in the garden where she took refuge on her first night in Mycenae. The valley stretches below them, and above, the temple of Hera, silent and white. Clytemnestra rarely goes into it. Priests and priestesses aren’t her concern.
“I was thinking about those petitioners,” Clytemnestra says.
Iphigenia comes closer. “It’s the baby you lost, isn’t it? You always come here when you think about him.”
Clytemnestra wants to look down but she doesn’t. Lying to her daughter is of no use. She starts wondering whether she should ask Iphigenia to cover herself—it is getting colder and they are on the highest point of the citadel—when Orestes runs into the garden. He looks excited, his dark locks bouncing around his head as he hops toward them.
“Mother, I have to tell you!” he says, breathless. He stops when he sees Iphigenia, giving her a meaningful look. She narrows her eyes, suspicious.
“What happened?” Clytemnestra asks.
Orestes lowers his voice in a conspiratorial way. “I saw her with that man.”
Iphigenia’s cheeks are burning. “It was nothing.”
“His mouth was on yours!” Orestes says, torn between anger and giddiness.
“Orestes!” Iphigenia says.
Clytemnestra wants to laugh, but she stays serious. “Did Leon kiss you?” she asks.
“How did you—” Iphigenia starts, her eyes wide.
“Yes, he did!” Orestes interrupts. “His hands were in her hair, and he told her she was the most beautiful girl ever to walk our lands!” He speaks as though Leon’s words were a crime worth a flogging.
Iphigenia stands and starts to pace, agitated. She seems torn between attacking her brother and explaining herself to her mother.
“What did you do, Iphigenia?” Clytemnestra asks. “What did you tell Leon?”
Orestes sits on a mossy rock. He seems confused. “You are not going to scold her? She was kissing a man!” He insists on “kissing” to make sure his mother understands.
“It was wrong to spy on your sister, Orestes.”
Orestes’s triumph fades, like the colors of frescoes when the torches burn out. Iphigenia stops pacing. “It will never happen again, Mother,” she says.
“Do you want it to happen again?”
Iphigenia chews her lip. Out of the corner of her eye, Clytemnestra sees Electra look out from behind a tree at the edge of the garden. She is watching them, trying to catch their words. Who knows how long she has been there?
“Leon is good to me,” Iphigenia says. “And he is a great warrior, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Clytemnestra says. “But you won’t marry him.”
Orestes’s face catches the light, full of mischief. He thinks the argument is back in his favor.