Iphigenia smiles, then breaks into a yawn. All the excitement of the day is waning, and now she is just tired. She lies down on her pallet, stretching her long limbs. “Can you blow out the lamp when you are ready, Mother?” she asks.
“Of course.” Clytemnestra caresses her daughter’s hair; Iphigenia relaxes under her touch. Then she walks to the lamps and blows them all out. The tent falls into darkness, and Clytemnestra goes outside to think by the sea, under the stars.
*
The beach is like a furnace, even at night. Because there are no waves, there is no sound. She kicks her feet in the sand dunes, marram grass tickling her soles. The moonlight makes the blades look like desperate arms stretching in the darkness. And then there are the ships, their shapes looming on the water, like seabirds waiting.
“Have you come here in the hope of some breeze?”
She turns. Odysseus is just a shadow behind her, though she would recognize him anywhere—the relaxed posture, the amused voice. He is holding a beautiful wine cup, its gems shining dimly.
“How long has it been like this?” she asks. “Without the wind.”
“Since the morning after our arrival. We woke up and the air was so dense that I felt as though dead men’s fingers were trying to suffocate me.”
“You won’t be able to sail until the wind comes.”
“Let us hope Boreas will grace us with his presence soon, then.” Boreas, god of the wind and bringer of the breeze. They stand side by side for a while, looking at the sea. It is difficult to think in such heat.
“How is Penelope?” Clytemnestra asks.
“Your cousin is good, as clever and beautiful as ever. I still can’t explain how she agreed to marry me.”
Clytemnestra takes the cup from his hand and drinks some wine. “She will probably say the same now that you are gone.”
He shrugs. “Ithaca couldn’t be in better hands, with her ruling in my stead. You should see her . . . That woman knows more secrets than all my spies put together.” He smiles to himself. “She doesn’t share them, of course. She is as quiet as a tomb. Though I suspect that the people listen to her because they know she could unravel their lives in a moment if she wanted to.”
The wine tastes sour in Clytemnestra’s mouth but she sips again. Odysseus takes the cup back from her. “If you drink my wine, I am afraid I won’t be polutropos anymore.”
“Well, Agamemnon has other men whose minds he trusts now,” she jokes. “Soon you will be set aside.”
“And who will take my place? Diomedes? He can’t tell the difference between a snake and a lizard.”
“Calchas.”
“Of course.” Odysseus laughs. “But your husband will soon tire of the man’s pessimism. Yesterday he told us that the war will be much longer than expected after he looked at some sheep’s bones.”
“What did the others say?”
“Most of them believe him. They see him as the spokesman for the gods. Others, like Idomeneus or Achilles, are bright enough to nod when he talks. They know that he controls everyone in some way. What if one day Calchas wakes up and announces the gods are angry with them?”
“Do you think Achilles is worthy of my daughter?” Clytemnestra asks.
He passes a hand through his hair, smoothing it. “I would say so. He is young, handsome and, unluckily for us, can also have a soft heart.”
“That is no good in war.”
“But perfect for a marriage.”
His words roll in the thick air, making their way to the sea. Clytemnestra senses something beneath them, like a rotten root that refuses to be seen. She wants to ask him to say more, but he turns to walk away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some planning to do for your husband. You’ll see for yourself tomorrow.”
His sturdy figure walks back toward the tents and disappears, leaving nothing but the scent of wine.
Clytemnestra wades into the sea. The water laps at her calves, and her toes sink into the sand. Knee-deep in the water, she thinks of Helen and Castor. One gone, the other dead. One in the enemy’s city, the other burned. Her mother always told her that the people who die never really leave. Sometimes they watch; at others, they speak. So Leda was taught to look and listen. “They can be in the trees, hidden behind the bark, or in the water, whistling with each crashing wave.”
Clytemnestra stands in the warm water, hoping that someone is watching. But there are no waves and no whispers. She walks back to her tent.
*
She is woken early in the morning. Leon is shaking her gently and she blinks in the darkness. Dawn hasn’t come yet, and she hasn’t slept more than three hours.
“Odysseus has called for you in his tent,” Leon whispers.
Clytemnestra wipes her forehead with her sleeve. The air is still damp, sickening. The wind hasn’t come. Next to her, Iphigenia is sleeping, panting slightly in the heat. She kept stirring in the night.
“You stay here with her,” Clytemnestra says, standing and brushing down her tunic.
“I will come with you, my queen,” Leon says. “There are other guards outside.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know, but I don’t trust that man.”
Clytemnestra smiles. “Odysseus is an old friend. Come now. Take me to him.”
On the beach, the fires have gone out. Some soldiers are sleeping outside, trying to cool down by the sea. No one pays attention to them as they walk past every tent, their steps muffled on the cool sand. There are three guards outside Odysseus’s tent, half-asleep. They don’t even blink when Clytemnestra throws open the tent door.
Inside, there are two other men, with daggers at their waists. Odysseus is wide awake, sitting by a table and looking at some maps. They must have been discussing war tactics.
“Here you are,” he says when he sees Clytemnestra. “Hope you managed to sleep.” She shrugs. He jerks his head at Leon. “Why did you bring him?”
“Does it matter?” she asks. “Unless you are going to murder me, which I hope you aren’t.”
There is a flash in his eyes, quick and bright as lightning. It goes as fast as it comes. “That would be far beneath me,” Odysseus says.
“And you wouldn’t stand a chance,” she adds, smiling.
He grins back. “You must be wondering why I have woken you so early.” He gestures to another chair, and she takes it, Leon standing stiffly behind her. “As you know, there is some discontent among the men. The heat, the restlessness, the brawls . . .” He waves a hand.
“I was called here for that reason, remember? To appease the army with a marriage.”
“Yes, yes,” he says. “But Agamemnon is also struggling with complicated decisions. As you pointed out last night, without the wind, we cannot sail.”
She snorts. “Why don’t you consult Calchas? He surely has some gods-related insight into the matter.”
Odysseus half smiles. “You are right. He has.”
“And?”
“Calchas says the gods demand a sacrifice. You know, seers are fond of blood.”
Clytemnestra laughs, though she doesn’t see what this has to do with her. Outside, dawn breaks. The tent is already becoming warmer.
Odysseus scratches his neck. “Do you know what your husband did to convince me to fight in this war? You probably remember I didn’t swear that cursed oath back in Sparta.”
“I know what he did,” Clytemnestra says, but Odysseus ignores her.
“When he sent his men to Ithaca, I pretended I was mad. I didn’t want to go to war. My son was just born, and Penelope, as you well know, has a certain fear of me abandoning her.” He chuckles at the thought. “‘I am going mad,’ my clever wife said, so I decided to pretend I was mad to send Agamemnon’s men away. I stripped off my clothes, went naked in the cold, and started plowing the stony winter field.
“The first day, the men laughed at me. They almost believed the act. I can be quite convincing. But on the second day, they went into the palace. They took Telemachus from Penelope’s arms and threw him into the field, right in front of the plow. The blade almost cut his tender flesh, right here.” He touches his hand to the belly.