“Why?” Iphigenia asks. She looks saddened, though not too much; she is rarely in a bad mood.
“Because you are a princess of the most powerful Greek city, and he is just a guard.”
There is a rustle and Electra comes out of her hiding place.
“Who will we marry, then?” she asks, unable to contain herself. Clytemnestra feels warmth creeping inside her. She loves it when her daughter loses her seriousness and composure, when she can’t keep her curiosity at bay and hangs on her every word.
“A king,” Clytemnestra says.
Iphigenia walks to her sister and takes her arm with a smile. She has already forgotten Leon and the shame of being seen. Clytemnestra watches as they sit together, Iphigenia talking animatedly about husbands, as if she had thousands of them, Electra listening with a frown. Her daughters may not be able to wrestle, she thinks, but they are not fools. They are fierce and clever, each in her own way, and won’t have trouble ruling men and cities. Kings will beg for a chance to marry Iphigenia—boys and men already turn their heads wherever she walks. As for Electra, she will find someone who isn’t intimidated by her brooding eyes.
They might not know how to wield a weapon, but it doesn’t matter. Words can cut deeper than swords.
*
Leon is in the armory, counting the arrows in a bronze quiver, his back to the door. The boys he was training have gone home, and the yard is quiet. When Clytemnestra walks in, Leon turns and bows. “My queen.”
She rests her back against the wooden wall, swords gleaming all around her. Because she doesn’t speak, he frowns. “Are the children all right?”
“Yes.” She sees the confusion in his eyes and tries to find the right words to say what she has to while Leon waits, discomfort growing on his face. “A few servants from the kitchen asked for you,” she says. “You know the dark-haired girl my husband likes so much? She keeps staring at you at dinner.”
He seems angry but says nothing.
She raises her eyebrows. “You should go to her.”
“I do not like her,” he says.
It is not up to you to decide who you like.
“I see.” She touches her hand to the cool metal of a sword. “Though sometimes it is bad for us to go after the people we like. Do you know what I mean?”
He tilts his head. He understands that she knows about Iphigenia, but he doesn’t seem sorry for it. Silence stretches between them, long and uncomfortable.
“I am sorry for what he did to you,” he finally says. His voice is warm, and there is sadness in it. “I know about your other husband and what King Agamemnon did.”
For a moment, she is speechless. She cannot believe he is talking about Tantalus. Nobody mentions her late husband—nobody dares. A woman—the wife of one of Agamemnon’s warriors—had spoken of him once, years ago. “Is it true you were married to a barbaros?” she asked, disgust spread across her features.
Clytemnestra had whipped her knife under the woman’s throat and spoken quietly. “I would cut you, but something tells me it wouldn’t even be a good fight. So why don’t you bite your tongue and never speak in front of me again?”
She looks at Leon. Is this what he thinks? That she doesn’t want others to be happy because happiness was stolen from her? “You know nothing.”
“You must have loved him,” he says. She imagines sinking her palm into the blade, showing him her pain. He shouldn’t dare speak to her like this. He shouldn’t dare assume he understands her feelings.
“You know nothing,” she repeats and walks away.
*
After dinner, she orders Aileen to prepare a warm bath. The bathhouse in Mycenae is much larger than the one in Sparta, with high windows. As Aileen fills the bath with hot water brought from the kitchen, Clytemnestra looks out at the sunset firing over the palace, sending orange streaks across the sky. From up here, she can’t hear the singing of the women or the chatter of the children and merchants that echoes throughout the citadel. The bathhouse is mute and muffles the sound of everyone inside it.
The water is ready, and Clytemnestra steps into the tub. The heat makes her flinch. Aileen washes her hair, gently combing out each knot, and Clytemnestra relaxes under her touch. She remembers how scared Aileen was when she arrived in the palace, a small, red-haired mouse always hiding in some corner. Once, Clytemnestra had found her in the dark corridor outside her room, alone, a platter of meat in hand. She was meant to take it to her but was too shy to do so. “You shouldn’t be afraid of me,” she had told the girl.
“Why?” Aileen asked.
“Because I am not going to hurt you. You should save your fear for the warriors, for the elders, or for the king.”
Aileen looked up then. “And you? Don’t you fear them?”
“I do,” Clytemnestra said, “but I’m smart enough not to show it.”
She is thinking back to that day, staring at the reflection of the burning torch in the water, when Aileen speaks. “King Agamemnon asked for my presence tonight.”
Clytemnestra stiffens. Aileen moves to scrub her feet, and Clytemnestra catches her face under the feeble light—her features are calm, just like Clytemnestra taught her, but the wavering in her voice is unmistakable.
“You will not go,” Clytemnestra says. “He can find some other servant to entertain him.”
Aileen looks relieved but catches herself and tries to keep her face expressionless.
“But who?”
“There are plenty of women in this citadel who would like to fuck my husband.”
Aileen nods, and for a moment, they are silent.
“What should I do, then?” she asks, unable to contain herself.
All these years, and she is still scared of him. Clytemnestra can’t judge her for that. Aileen told her how Agamemnon’s father used to sleep with her mother before Atreus was killed, of how his brother Thyestes would terrorize the servants with burns and floggings, of how, when Agamemnon took back the citadel, he executed all the people who hadn’t been faithful. For many nights, after they put the children to bed, Aileen would speak to Clytemnestra of the violence of the Atreidai’s line. She had frightened words for all men except one: Agamemnon’s estranged cousin, Aegisthus.
“Aegisthus didn’t like violence when he lived in this palace. He killed and hurt others only when he had to.” In Aileen’s whispered words, Aegisthus was a shy child, eager to be loved, and then a watchful young man, silent and slippery. While other men his age brought girls to their room, he never requested any servant’s presence, and when his father flogged his enemies and made everyone watch, Aegisthus would later sneak into the prisoners’ cells, bringing them food and salves to ward off infection.
“He sounds like an interesting man,” Clytemnestra said once, “though harmless.”
A shadow passed on Aileen’s face. “He wasn’t always harmless. He could be cruel too, and dangerous.”
And now Aegisthus is out there, somewhere, the Atreidai’s last standing enemy. Guards have been looking for him for fifteen years, yet no one has found him. As the elders pointed out in their last meeting, he is probably dead.
“My queen?” Aileen says.
Clytemnestra stands and water drips onto the stone floor. Aileen hurries to bring her tunic and wrap it around her shoulders.
“You will do nothing,” Clytemnestra says. “I will deal with it.”
*
She finds Agamemnon in his frescoed bedroom, sitting on a chair lost in thought. The painted trees and happy fish jumping in the river clash with his stark figure. He raises his head when she comes in. His look is hard—he is angry, though Clytemnestra can’t tell why. Not that she cares.
“Your red-haired servant won’t come tonight,” he finally says.
“No.”
“You told her not to.”
“You will find someone else to fuck,” she says calmly.
That makes him laugh; the sound scratches the painted walls. He pours himself some wine from the jug. Clytemnestra does the same, taking the other chair.
“And who would that be?” he asks, looking as she brings the cup to her lips. “You?”