The sun sets late in summer. Standing on the terrace in front of the main hall, Clytemnestra looks at the mountains to the west and the east. Their peaks are perfectly outlined against the orange sky, then slowly become blurred, melting into the growing darkness. When she hears steps approaching behind her, she doesn’t turn. Tantalus appears next to her, as she hoped he would. She wanted him to follow her, but now she doesn’t know what to say. So she waits. When she turns to him, he is staring at the golden earrings that graze her neck and shoulders as they swing. They are in the shape of big anemones.
“Do you know the origin of windflowers?” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is warm, his skin as dark as oak.
“We call them anemones,” replies Clytemnestra.
“Anemones,” he repeats. “They were created by the goddess Aphrodite from the blood of Adonis, the boy she was in love with.”
“I know what happened. Adonis was slain by a wild boar.”
Tantalus frowns. “The boy dies but the goddess’s love for him remains. It is a reminder of beauty and resistance in times of adversity.”
“That is true, but Adonis is dead, and no flower can replace him.”
Tantalus smiles. “You truly are a strange woman.”
I am not strange, Clytemnestra wants to say, but she keeps silent, her breath held.
“Your father says you are as wise as a mature woman can be, and when I ask your sister about you, she says you always know what you want.”
Clytemnestra tilts her head. “That would be enviable, even for a man.”
Tantalus’s smile disappears and she fears he will walk away from her. But then he reaches for her hair. He touches her plaits, finds her neck. His hand on her is like a flame, yet she wants more of it. She takes one step forward, close enough to feel his heat. Desire runs through her, but she can’t come closer. He is a stranger, after all. They are still, the world moving around them.
The shadows grow longer on the terrace. Everything around them is soft, fading, as the skies merge with the earth, and their faces dissolve, like fleeting breath.
4
The Tales of Tantalus
IT IS EARLY morning, and Clytemnestra is sitting next to her father’s throne in the megaron. The room feels hot and the frescoes seem to be melting. She can smell Tyndareus’s sweat while her brothers argue over a Spartan warrior who claimed a fellow comrade’s wife as his own. Soon people will flood the megaron with their daily requests, and she will have to listen, but all she can think of is the feel of Tantalus’s hand on her neck. It was like being touched by a star.
“The warrior needs to pay,” Polydeuces is saying, his voice raised.
Clytemnestra rubs her eyes and tries to focus.
“You are always too vengeful, my son,” Tyndareus says. He is eating some grapes out of a bowl, juice staining his beard. “Terror doesn’t rule alone.”
“We are talking about a man who stole another’s woman!” Polydeuces replies sharply.
“Maybe she went with him willingly,” Castor smirks. “Make sure he pays the other comrade in gold. Then let the men be.”
“If it is just money that the man has to give as punishment, what will stop him the next time he wants to fuck someone else’s woman?” Polydeuces asks. “But if you take his child, his wife, show him that he too can lose the ones he loves, he will obey. He won’t ask for forgiveness. He will beg.”
“The man has no wife,” Castor points out. “He’s a widower.”
Tyndareus sighs. “What do you suggest, Clytemnestra?”
She sits up. “Summon the woman. Ask her what she did and why.”
Her brothers turn to her quickly. “And then?”
“Then act accordingly.” When no one says anything, she continues, “Are we in Sparta or in Athens? Do we not take pride in our strong, free-willed women, or do we lock them into the house so they grow fragile and useless?”
Castor frowns. “And if the woman claims she went with another man willingly?”
“Then she will have to ask for her husband’s forgiveness with the man. If he raped her, he will apologize to her, not to her husband.”
Tyndareus nods, and Clytemnestra’s face grows warm with pride. Her father rarely listens to anyone else.
“See this woman, then,” Tyndareus orders Castor and Polydeuces. Clytemnestra moves to stand, but her father stops her. “Stay.”
When her brothers have disappeared, Tyndareus offers her some grapes. His hands are large, calloused. “I want to ask you about the king of Maeonia, Clytemnestra.”
She takes the ripest grapes and swallows them, keeping her face as expressionless as she can. “What about him?”
“The agreement for which he has come here has been discussed. He can return home. But he tells me he likes spending time with you.” He stops, then continues. “What do you want?”
Clytemnestra looks at her own hands, long fingers covered with tiny cuts, palms smoother than her father’s. What do I want?
“Many men of Sparta will soon ask for your hand,” Tyndareus says. “You are loved and respected.”
“I know.”
Because she doesn’t speak further, Tyndareus asks, “And yet you wish Tantalus to stay?” He waits for her answer patiently, popping grapes into his mouth until the bowl is emptied.
“Yes, Father,” she says finally. “I want him to stay a little longer.”
*
She becomes obsessed with Tantalus. She aches for contact when he is around, and when he is not, her mind drifts, and she finds herself thinking about his eyes and lean body as she has never done with anyone else.
Helen doesn’t understand, but how could she? Clytemnestra knows very well that she herself is her sister’s greatest obsession. To Helen, all men are the same—strong, violent, excited by her beauty, but nothing more. They feel no challenge to conquer her heart; they see her only as a prize, the most precious one, but a prize still, as a cow or a sword might be. Tantalus, though, has seen something in Clytemnestra that he loves and wants, and he seems willing to do anything to have it.
“He is no different from all the others,” Helen tells her as they hurry down the narrow street of craftsmen’s workshops and stores around the palace. The street is a shortcut to the square where textile manufacturers and dyers run their errands.
“I believe he is different, but we will see,” Clytemnestra replies, missing some steps on the cobbled street.
“Slow down! Why are you running?” Helen pants.
Clytemnestra knows Tantalus is in the stables and hopes he will still be there when they come back.
“We need to collect Mother’s tunic before sunset. Hurry!” she says, stumbling from the darkness of the narrow street to the light of the square. The end of summer is near but the sun is fierce, blinding. Clytemnestra stops abruptly, and Helen bumps against her.
“Oh, come on,” she says. “You want to go back to see Tantalus.”
She takes her sister’s arm and guides her across the square. She stops in front of the perfume makers’ store to look at the fruit trees and herbs planted in an inner courtyard. Clytemnestra pushes her forward, past the dyers’ shops, animal skins hanging by the doors, and toward a smaller shop in one corner. It sells textiles, domain of spinners and weavers. Inside, the space is large and well organized, women working on raw wool and linen.
“We are here for Leda’s new chiton,” Clytemnestra says, her voice loud and clear.
A woman with black hair and pale skin comes forward, leaving aside the wool she was working on. “Welcome, princesses,” she says. She leads them to the back of the store, where older women are working on tall looms. “Wait here.” She disappears behind a curtain.
“When will Tantalus leave?” Helen asks. “Guests never stay so long.”
“Maybe he won’t,” Clytemnestra says.
Behind them, the women are whispering. Clytemnestra turns, trying to catch the words, and they stop immediately, focusing on their looms. Helen is blushing, her eyes downcast.
“What did they say?” Clytemnestra asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” Helen whispers. Before Clytemnestra can insist, the woman comes back holding a crimson tunic.
Clytemnestra takes it from her and turns to her sister. “Let’s go. We must get back.”
Helen mumbles something, but as soon as she speaks, the women are whispering again. She and Clytemnestra hurry out of the shop, the women’s eyes following them.
Outside, in the square, Helen walks ahead of Clytemnestra. She seems troubled, so Clytemnestra leaves her be. She can’t wait to leave the tunic by the palace door and run to the stables.