But something stopped me. You are a woman of revenge. You know how to play this wretched game of retribution. If someone can do justice, it is you. And I am sure you will.
You have done everything for me; I will never forget it. You hid me when the priestess demanded I was flogged, you taught me how to beat other girls when I was weaker, you encouraged me to love whoever I wanted. That is more than anyone can claim of their own sister. And now they have hurt you and I wasn’t there to protect you. I must live with this for the rest of my life. Is there any feeling more painful than regret? It spreads like a fever, invisible, and you can do nothing to fight it.
Mother is dead too, so the envoys from Sparta tell me. It must have been the wine. To me, she had been dead for quite a long time. I only remember glimpses of her hunting and fighting when I was little, but I think you, Helen, Castor, and Polydeuces had the best of her. She was tamed after a while.
You should never be tamed. Your men don’t bend to you because you are someone else’s wife: they do it because they respect your power. So rule them, keep their respect, make sure they are loyal and faithful to their last day. Then you will have a city and an army at your will.
Echemus always told me that some men are destined for greatness and others aren’t. He believed the gods decided that and we had no power in the matter. That is probably why he did nothing to earn his kingdom or the love of his people and also why he will die and wither into obscurity.
Agamemnon, Calchas, and Odysseus, on the other hand, know that one doesn’t grow powerful thanks to the gods: they take matters into their own hands and fight to have their names written into eternity. It is no wonder they have survived for so long: they are cruel and cunning. Although they are very different from one another, they have something in common—they believe they are special because no one but them sees the horrible things that need to be done. They believe others shy away from the brutal nature of life but that they are clever enough to see and act upon it. This is also what they tell everyone else: we have no choice, the gods demand it, war is a brutal affair, and we can’t win unless we too are brutal. These are all lies. They had a choice. The gods didn’t need Iphigenia to die for a whiff of wind. You don’t win wars by sacrificing little girls. You do it by killing your opponents. You taught me that.
Your sister Timandra
My dear Clytemnestra,
I am writing these words, which you will never read, sitting by a window in Troy, looking at the battlefield. It is a wasteland of broken wheels, circling crows, and putrefying bodies. Sometimes a severed arm is lying on the muddy ground, detached from everything else, as if it doesn’t remember where it belongs.
I can see the battle from here every day, but I can’t hear it. It is strange to look at the fighting and dying men. Their mouths are open, but it is as if no sound comes out. Sometimes I think this is how the unburied must feel, wandering around the world, destined not to hear and not to be heard. What a wretched state.
Heroes come and go on the plain, but I haven’t seen Castor and Polydeuces. I used to look for their heads among the spears and horses, but I don’t do that now. I just pray that they aren’t dead.
I am writing and weaving, weaving and writing. I have been doing it for a while now. It keeps me sane. And drinking. Will I end up like Leda, struggling to sit straight at dinner after the endless jugs? There is no one to answer that question. Once, it was you or our brothers who kept me calm. I would come to you with my gnawing doubts and believed everything that came out of your mouths. Now I answer my own questions, but I don’t really believe in myself.
Everyone hates me here. Remember how the Spartan women used to call me teras? To them, I was a portent and a freak, a godlike creature and a stain upon my family. Now the Trojan women call me much worse. I am a husband stealer, a whore, a traitor to my land, a terrible wife, a deadly woman, an undeserving mother. They blame me for everything that happened in my life and their own. Somehow they even found out about the Theseus affair. You should see how they twist that story. How lucky she was to be with such a hero . . . and yet she was never grateful . . . she went home to look for a new man . . . it is never enough for her. I wish I could remind them that Theseus stripped me naked when I was still a child, raped me while I cried, then left, laughing, with his friend Pirithous. But what would the point of telling be? They would not believe me. They won’t give me their pity. They want me to be their scapegoat. So be it.
I have come to hate Paris. He doesn’t defend me from the gossip, from the spiteful words of his family. And he doesn’t fight. This is his war too, yet all he does is train with his bow. When he is done, he comes back to our quarters to make love to me. But it is not the same as before.
Sometimes at night, when he falls asleep, I watch him and think about murdering him, crushing some drug into his cup. I have a few in my quarters—they come from Egypt. They banish pain and sorrow if taken in small quantities, but if you exceed, they kill you. So I put them in his cup, mix the wine, but then I always find myself throwing it away. Paris is the reason I left everything behind. I used to love him with all my heart. Who has bewitched whom?
I think about you a lot. At least I know that Agamemnon is away from you, fighting under this city’s gates. So is Menelaus. Maybe they will die in the war, maybe not. I spend my days looking at the soldiers cutting each other down on the battlefield, their blood spilling into the shape of anemones, and I wonder, What are you doing, Sister? What are you thinking about? Are you happy?
Your Helen
25
Different Kinds of Wars
Nine years later
IT HAS BEEN nine years since her daughter died. Nine years to the day.
The world has changed, the seasons slipping past her. Flowers blossoming, leaves falling, stars floating. The land has grown dark and fertile, then burned and yellow again. Clouds have come and gone, like sheep in a meadow. Rains have fallen.
She has watched the world shift around her while her heart stayed the same, bleeding hatred. She often thinks of what her mother said all those years ago. Hate is a bad root. It takes its place in your heart and it grows and grows, letting everything rot.
It is sunset in the garden, the sky orange as if on fire. The temple of Hera looks pale in the burning light, the columns like bones. She walks by the trees and sits on the grass at the edge of the citadel, listening to the deafening silence. It swallows her, keeping her safe from the world.
She comes here every evening. When the sunlight is gone, she wears her grief like a sling across her chest and allows herself to remember.
She remembers her daughter when she came into the world, a fragile lump of mucus and flesh. Iphigenia had held up her little hands and smiled at her. This is my chance, Clytemnestra thought, my chance of a new life.
Iphigenia cradling a newborn Electra in her arms. “Why is she so serious, Mother?” she had asked, her eyes wide with wonder.
Aileen washing and tickling Iphigenia’s feet and Iphigenia laughing, covering her face with her smooth hands.
Her bare feet beating on the ground as she danced. Her hair moved like a wave, and her earrings dangled around her long neck. She looked so much like Helen that Clytemnestra was afraid her heart might burst.
And then Aulis.
The truth is, she doesn’t remember everything about Aulis. Some memories just slid away, like water on a silver shield, and now she can’t get them back. All that is left of those dark moments are questions: How did she get back to Mycenae? How did she tell her children?