“I still don’t. But I respect him. Do you know what he did when my men arrived on Ithaca to call for him?”
She shakes her head.
“He plowed a winter field, naked and screaming. He wanted us to believe he was mad. But I had told my men to bring him here at all costs and to threaten him with his child. You know that your cousin Penelope has given birth, I assume?”
She knows it well. A year ago, an envoy had brought her the news. The queen of Ithaca had given birth to a boy—Telemachus, she had named him.
“You didn’t kill his child,” Clytemnestra says, stiffening.
“No. But my men put the baby in front of the plow blade. So Odysseus stopped and his trick was revealed. Threaten the many-minded with his own son, and even he will lose all his minds.”
How brave of your men, to put an infant in front of a plow.
“So he is coming,” she says. Penelope must be furious. Her biggest fear was to lose Odysseus. While all I want is to get rid of my husband.
“He will serve the army well,” Calchas says. “Unlike many others, he sees things as they are. He knows men’s true nature and doesn’t fear it. He plays with it.”
Clytemnestra wishes the seer wouldn’t interrupt. It is hard to speak to her husband with Calchas by their side, staring at them with his shiny little eyes.
“We will gather everyone at Aulis,” Agamemnon says.
“When will you leave?”
“As soon as I know that Achilles, son of Peleus, will come.”
Clytemnestra frowns. “Why?”
“The war can’t be won without him,” Calchas says.
“Whose liver told you that?” Clytemnestra asks, but the seer ignores her. “Why does Achilles need convincing?” she asks. “Wars are how heroes are made.”
“It has been prophesied that he will die in the war,” Agamemnon says. “But he will come. I have sent Odysseus to fetch him. Word has it that he is hiding on some rocky island, pretending to be a girl.”
“If he is so needed for your victory,” she says, “let us hope the great Achilles won’t outshine you.” She enjoys seeing the flicker of annoyance in her husband’s eyes before excusing herself. She can’t stand Calchas’s presence any longer.
*
Clytemnestra stands still as Aileen mends her sandals in the sunlight. The air carries a sweet scent, and they enjoy a rare moment of silence—the soldiers seem to be resting.
“Do you fear for your sister?” Aileen asks after a while.
Clytemnestra smiles. “You always ask the right questions, Aileen. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Aileen chuckles. “I also meant to ask if your sister is as beautiful as everyone says, but I thought it might annoy you.”
“Helen is a light,” Clytemnestra says, echoing Menelaus’s words in spite of herself. “Her hair is like liquid gold, and her face carries the secrets of her heart. She is gentle but strong.”
“Like Iphigenia,” Aileen says.
“Yes.”
Clytemnestra looks at Aileen’s chapped hands. “I don’t fear for Helen. I am glad she left. Now the king will leave too, and I shall rule Mycenae.”
Aileen flushes, and Clytemnestra smiles. “I know you want to get rid of him too.”
Aileen giggles and soon they are laughing together, their voices floating over the citadel like little suns.
*
More days pass, and more news arrives at the palace.
The great Ajax, son of Telamon, will come, and with him twelve ships from Salamis. They are not many, but his men are trained by the hero so they are as hard as oak and as belligerent as Spartans.
Old Nestor from sandy Pylos pledges himself, bringing with him his many sons and ninety ships. In the megaron, his envoy speaks of the honor Nestor will have as one of Agamemnon’s closest advisers. He, with his legendary wisdom, next to the greatest commander of his time. Clytemnestra sees Agamemnon curl his lips as the envoy sings his praises.
And then Tlepolemus, son of the hero Heracles, with his Rhodian forces, and the archer Philoctetes with seven more ships. All kings and princes pledge allegiance to Agamemnon, each one agreeing to have him as their general. It is something unseen before, all these proud heroes willingly fighting under one man’s leadership.
Finally, the news arrives that Odysseus and Diomedes have convinced Achilles to join the cause. Orestes hears it in the megaron and runs to his mother to tell her. Clytemnestra is practicing in the armory, and when he tumbles in, she almost throws the spear she is holding.
“How many times have I told you?” she asks. “You can’t come in here when I am practicing.”
Orestes ignores her. “They are leaving soon! Achilles said he’ll come!”
“That is good,” she says. She puts away the spear among the axes and maces.
“Can I go too?” Orestes asks, out of breath.
She turns, frowning. “You are ten. It is too young.”
“But it will be a short expedition. We will be home by winter!”
“Who said that?”
“Father. I heard him talk to Philoctetes’s men today.”
Clytemnestra sighs. She ties her hair back, wiping away some sweat from her forehead. “He lied, Orestes. This will be a long war. Troy has never been conquered, and its soldiers are skilled in battle. No matter how big our army is, it won’t be an easy campaign.”
Orestes huffs. He thinks it through for a while, then asks, “And Aunt Helen will be there, in Troy?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she will come back when the war is won?”
Fear stirs in her like dust. Everyone knows what happens when a city is taken—its goods stolen, its people killed and butchered, its women raped or, worse, enslaved. Even if Helen is no common Trojan woman, still, what will Menelaus do when Troy falls? Will he forgive her? But then, if the Greeks lose, what does it mean for them? Will the Trojans come to take their women, ravage their land, destroy their palaces?
“I hope she will,” Clytemnestra says.
*
That evening after dinner, Agamemnon comes to Clytemnestra’s room. She is sitting on a stool, looking out the window at the looming clouds.
“You are leaving tomorrow,” she says.
“It is time. We’ll catch the spring winds.”
“And what do you think of these men, the generals you are going to command?”
“I can trust some of them.” He stands next to her by the window. “Like Idomeneus and Diomedes.”
“Only a fool would trust Diomedes. He is like a dog, sniffing where the power is.”
“Which is lucky, because as long as I have the power, he’ll lick my feet.”
“And Odysseus?”
Agamemnon snorts. “Only a fool would trust Odysseus.”
Clytemnestra nods. “We agree on that.”
Outside, they can hear the first drops of rain. Agamemnon touches his hand to the back of her head, and she becomes aware of the shape of her skull, small in his large palm. “I will be away for a long time,” he says. “I imagine you will find yourself a lover.”
“And you will find yourself some pretty slaves.”
He lets his hand drop. The bed is still made, the sheepskin covering it, and Agamemnon lies back on it. Clytemnestra turns away from the window but doesn’t join him.
“Do you expect these men to love you?” she asks.
“No. Fear and obedience are the best a commander of such a large army can attract.”
“Some men are loved by many.”
“Like Achilles,” he says. “But he is just a boy. Talented, but still childish in his quest for glory. The others will soon see that.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then I will show them.”
They are quiet for a moment, listening to the raindrops strengthen.
“If you win,” Clytemnestra says, “what of Helen?”
Agamemnon chuckles. “Oh, I am sure my brother will forgive her as soon as he sees her. He is the forgiving type, and your sister can be quite convincing.”
Yes, she can.
“Come here, Clytemnestra,” he says. It isn’t a request. He is looking at her with his hard eyes, and she can’t help but think of breaking a stone with a chisel until all the hardness is gone.
She goes to him and feels the bed covers under her hands. He wraps his arms around her, ripping away her tunic. Just one last time, she tells herself.