“What about Helen?” she asks. “Surely she can convince Polydeuces.”
Agamemnon waits a moment before speaking. “Your sister hasn’t been well lately. She shuts herself into her room and doesn’t even talk to her daughter.”
“What happened to her?”
“Menelaus says she is unhappy.”
“What has he done to her?”
He laughs. “You always think us guilty of petty crimes. My brother hasn’t done anything. Your sister is spoiled, always has been.”
“Menelaus doesn’t respect her,” Clytemnestra spits out.
“Mother,” Iphigenia says, touching her hand, soothing her, “I think you should go. Uncle Castor will do anything you tell him to, and Aunt Helen will be happier as soon as she sees you.”
Clytemnestra takes a deep breath, letting in the cold air. Her daughter clearly doesn’t know anything about Castor: people can cry, plead, beg, but he will always find a way to do what he wants. But then she thinks of her sister, shutting herself up like a prisoner in her childhood home. It is terrible to be alone like that, when you are surrounded by people but no one can help you. It makes you feel there is no hope.
She needs to go to Sparta.
*
She says goodbye to her children at dawn and rides out of the Lion Gate with Leon when the citadel is still waking up. Down in the village, filthy pigs are snuffling along the streets while two dogs lick some spilled milk.
When she woke them before leaving, Orestes and Iphigenia yawned and kissed her.
“Tell Uncle Castor of my progress with the sword,” Orestes whispered.
“Travel safely, Mother,” Iphigenia said. “I am sure Aunt Helen will be so happy to see you.” Her hair was the color of ripe grain in the semidarkness, and Clytemnestra caressed it, putting some stray strands back into place. Then she moved to Electra’s bed.
“Is it true that Helen is sick?” Electra asked quietly, sitting up straight on her pallet.
“She is just unhappy.”
“I have heard that some women can die of unhappiness.”
“That is untrue.”
Electra sat in dissatisfied silence. When Clytemnestra moved forward to kiss her head, she curled up in her mother’s lap.
“Come back soon, Mother,” she said, her voice as quiet as a leaf that falls from a tree. Clytemnestra wished it were louder, so she could catch it and keep it close to her.
*
They ride for three days and nights. The land is silent and cold. The trees are losing their leaves and look stark, bonelike. Every time the sky becomes heavy with rain, they find shelter in a cave or among tumbled rocks. Leon is a good companion: he speaks only when he needs to, and his arrows never fail to provide good meals. Sometimes, as night comes and they warm themselves by the fire, she would like to talk to him about Iphigenia. You kissed my daughter, she wants to say. I know you love her, but you can’t be with her. But then she thinks, What would be the point? What good would it do to tell a man he can’t have what he wants? So she keeps silent and watches him as he skins a rabbit, his hair falling around his face. Maybe he is luckier in that way, she thinks. Maybe it is good for him never to have what he desires. Then others can’t come and take it from him.
*
They reach the Eurotas just after noon on the third day. The water is frozen, reflecting the dark mountains and the colorless sky. The helots are working the land, cloths wrapped around their hands in an attempt to ward off the cold. Clytemnestra is careful to ride by the side of the fields, and as she passes, the helots look up, their faces all age lines and scars.
By the rocky terrain at the foot of the palace, a bearded man is waiting for them. The wind is so strong that he has covered his ears under his cloak. Still, his hands are chapped and his eyes watery. As soon as Clytemnestra and Leon dismount their horses, the man steps forward. “King Menelaus is waiting for you. You are to come at once.” His voice sounds like nails screeching on rock.
“Is my sister safe?”
“Queen Helen is entertaining a guest. You are to see King Menelaus first. That is what he commands.”
“Bring me to him, then.”
They walk up the stairs, hurrying to match the man’s pace. As soon as they cross the threshold inside, the warmth welcomes them like an embrace. The man guides them to the megaron, turning every once in a while to check on them, as though Clytemnestra didn’t know the way. When they reach the hall, the man motions them to wait outside. Standing by the closed door, they hear him announce them: “Queen Clytemnestra, my king.”
“What are you waiting for? Let her in.” Menelaus’s voice, mocking the man. “Bring food and wine.”
The door opens again and a servant runs outside, an empty platter in her hands. She nods quickly to Clytemnestra and disappears in the kitchen’s direction.
Menelaus is seated in what was Tyndareus’s throne near the hearth. At his feet, two house dogs eat a long bone. The queen’s chair next to him, draped with lambskins, is empty. Thanks to the many lit torches that illuminate the frescoes, the room is even warmer than the rest of the palace. Clytemnestra walks toward the hearth, Leon close behind her. She stops by the images of running men, their bodies the color of hazelnut, and waits for her brother-in-law to speak.
For what feels like a very long time, Menelaus keeps silent. He looks at her, pensive. His bronze hair has grown grayer with the years, but his face is still handsome. Finally, the servant comes back to the room, breathless and with a full platter, and Menelaus seems to wake from his trance. “Please, eat,” he says, smiling. “I am glad to have you here.”
Clytemnestra picks up a piece of goat cheese and accepts the cup of wine the girl is offering her. “And I am glad to be back.”
Menelaus smirks, as though her response was a jest. “You have a very strange family, Clytemnestra,” he says.
She sips the wine. She doesn’t know where he is leading. Menelaus stretches in his throne and she notices the precious rings on his fingers, not the kind of jewelry a true Spartan would wear.
“A sister who fucks women but then deserts her husband for another man. Two brothers who kidnap girls promised to their cousins. My wife, who refuses to talk to her husband.” He is not speaking with anger; rather, he seems confused by the situation he is in, like a child who asks his mother why the world works in a certain way. “Phoebe and Philonoe seem to be the only sane members of your family. Married off to useless kings. At least I hear they make them happy.” He winks, gulping his wine.
“What about your family?” Clytemnestra asks. “What about your father and your uncle? A son killed and cooked, a daughter raped by her father. Your line is cursed.”
Menelaus waves her away, as he would an irksome fly. “We knew the gods cursed our grandfather the moment we were born. But our fortunes have changed. The days of family feuds are over. Mycenae and Sparta prosper, and we have no more enemies.”
Clytemnestra laughs. “That is because you killed them all.”
“Not all,” Menelaus corrects her. “Aegisthus still lives. But he will be found.”
Clytemnestra thinks about the elders’ whispers in Mycenae—“Aegisthus must be dead. No man can live alone in the woods for so long”—but she keeps quiet.
“And you have to remember,” Menelaus adds, “you are family too now.”
To avoid speaking, Clytemnestra takes more cheese, dipping it into a small cup of honey the servant offers her.
“The first time we came to Sparta,” Menelaus says, “we wanted to see only your sister. She was all everyone spoke about. Helen the beauty. Helen, who glows like a goddess. Helen, daughter of Zeus. Then my brother saw you and forgot about Helen. He told me he would have you no matter the consequences. He said that you were different from the others, strong and sharp enough to bear anything. He never tolerated people who showed their suffering.”