A small smile breaks on Electra’s lips. “And Leon?” she asks.
“Leon will come with us.”
*
They leave at dawn. As they fit into the chariot, bags are settled at their feet. A length of embroidered fabric spills out of one of the packs, and Iphigenia smooths it with her fingertip. Leon takes the reins, and the horses snort and move. Soon, the Lion Gate and Mycenae’s high stone walls are far behind them, bathing in the rising sun.
They ride through the hills dotted with the first colors of spring, the land green and yellow, the early morning sky the color of peaches. The chariot bumps over the rocky path, and Leon sings to pass the time. His voice is warm and lovely. Birds chirp from the trees, and morning gives way to afternoon. They stop only to refresh themselves by a small river and to eat the cakes Aileen has left for them in the bags. Leon does his best to avoid Iphigenia’s eyes. When Clytemnestra told him he was to come with them, he looked hurt. “Why me?” he asked.
“Because you swore to protect us.”
“You always say you don’t need protection.”
Clytemnestra almost laughed. “Well, I do now.”
In the end, the need to stay close to Iphigenia was stronger than the pain of losing her. Not that he could disobey a queen’s order. So now he speaks only when he has to, and whenever Iphigenia asks him something, he answers without looking at her, as if afraid that her light might make his eyes water. But Iphigenia doesn’t notice—she is too excited to care about anything other than the marriage. She sways as the chariot rolls on, talking excitedly to her mother.
“Aileen told me that Achilles is the fastest man who ever lived. Did you know that?”
“Since when does Aileen listen to the women’s gossip?” Clytemnestra asks.
“And that his mother is a goddess,” Iphigenia adds, “and that his men adore him. Myrmidons, they are called, and they all grew up with him in Phthia.”
Clytemnestra looks at the landscape around them, rocks and fields with grazing sheep. “You know that everyone in Sparta believed Helen’s father was a god when we were children?”
Iphigenia shakes her head.
“That is what the people say when no one knows who the parent is. ‘She lay with Zeus,’ ‘He loved a sea goddess.’ But Achilles is no more god than you are.”
At last the sea appears on the horizon, sunlight glittering on it, and beyond, the coast of Euboea.
*
As soon as they step down from the chariot at the edge of the camp, something in the air shifts. The heat clings to their bodies, and their tunics stick to their backs. It is the wind, Clytemnestra realizes—there is none. Leon wipes his forehead with his hand and casts her a confused look, but Iphigenia doesn’t notice. She jumps up, her mouth open. “Look, Mother!”
The shoreline is covered with ships of every color and shape, and behind them, a sea of tents that stretches to the horizon, thousands of men grouped around them. There are the vessels of Crete, Ithaca, Argos, and, at the center of the camp, Mycenae, its purple and gold a treat for the eyes. Beyond the cluster of ships, the sea is as flat as a silver blade.
Iphigenia unties her hair, letting it swing down her back, and mounts the chariot again. “Come on!” she says. Reluctantly, Leon takes the reins again, and Clytemnestra goes to stand next to her daughter. Sunlight falls over them, blinding them as they enter the camp.
Inside, it is chaos. Soldiers are moving poles and canvas, pennants and weapons. A few servant women, probably taken from villages the Greeks passed as they rode here, are hanging laundered tunics on poles, filling bowls with food. There is a latrine that stinks like death, flies buzzing around it. A few skinny dogs roam about, sniffing, barking.
As their chariot rolls along, soldiers start making space, opening a pathway that takes them to the king’s tent. It is between Agamemnon’s pennant and an open space that looks like a marketplace, with a black stone altar. The sun shines on it, merciless, and Clytemnestra imagines putting a hand on it, burning herself.
They get off the chariot. Outside the tent, there is a row of guards, sweat pouring through their thick armor. They bow and show them the way inside. Clytemnestra hesitates, but her daughter rushes in, so she and Leon follow.
Inside, it is spacious and glittering. Wherever Clytemnestra looks, she sees gold: tripods, axes, cups, pins. Even the columns that support the canvas around Agamemnon’s throne are gilded. He looks pleased to see her, almost relieved. Why relieved? You said you knew I would come.
Around him, other chairs and other kings, though not many. This must be the smallest council, only Agamemnon’s most trusted generals. Menelaus is on his brother’s right, Diomedes on the king’s left. Beside him, Idomeneus with his painted eyes and shiny hair, and Odysseus smiling at her with his catlike grin. He sits in his chair as though it were a throne, leaning on the armrest with a cup of wine in hand. She recognizes other men seated around her: old Nestor, the giant Ajax, the archer Philoctetes. There is also Calchas, standing in the shadows, some dead birds next to him on a table. Achilles is nowhere to be seen.
Agamemnon stands and opens his arms, smiling in a warm way that doesn’t suit him. Iphigenia runs into them, and they hug. “Welcome,” he says. “I am glad you made it to Aulis.”
“And I am glad to be helpful, Father,” Iphigenia says. She has spoken slowly and clearly, as though she rehearsed what she would say on the journey. “I am sure a marriage party will cheer all your soldiers.”
He lets her go. Diomedes and Menelaus exchange a glance, though what it means, Clytemnestra can’t tell.
“My men will escort you to your quarters,” Agamemnon adds, “so you can prepare everything for tomorrow.”
“And where is Prince Achilles?” Clytemnestra asks.
The silence that follows is painful. For some reason, not one of the generals seems willing to speak. Then Odysseus smiles.
“Our prince is resting. In Phthia, it is customary not to see the bride before a marriage.”
Iphigenia almost jumps in delight. Clytemnestra looks back at Odysseus, but his eyes tell nothing more. So she nods and follows Agamemnon’s men outside the tent.
*
In the evening, Agamemnon comes for them. Iphigenia has been caressing the fabric of her wedding dress, smoothing it to perfection. She jumps up when she sees him, putting the dress carefully aside, but Agamemnon stays by the entrance, looking around the tent as though he has never seen one.
“I’ve come to tell you to rest. You will be up early tomorrow.” He avoids Clytemnestra’s gaze, smiling feebly in his daughter’s direction. “It is good what you are doing, helping us in this way.”
“I am only happy to do so, Father,” Iphigenia says. “Can you tell me more about Achilles?”
“You will see him tomorrow,” Agamemnon says briskly. “Now rest.”
He leaves as quickly as he came. Iphigenia remains where she is for a while, half expecting him to come back. When she finally realizes they are alone, she sits on the floor cross-legged.
“Sometimes I don’t understand Father,” she says.
Clytemnestra finishes her meat, looking at Leon’s figure by the entrance to the tent. He has been restless since they came here, peering at every soldier suspiciously. She knows he wants to get a glimpse of Achilles but has ordered him to stay close to Iphigenia. There are too many soldiers in the camp, too many lonely men.
“He acts as if nothing mattered to him,” Iphigenia adds. “Not even me.”
Clytemnestra puts the bowl down. “You are his daughter. Of course you matter.” She feels a pang of hatred for her husband, who can make even her beautiful, generous daughter feel unloved. “There is no one in the world more special than you.”