“Then you will die.”
She attacks him again, and this time he pushes forward too, ripping the air, his eyes filled with violence. They fight each other, their feet kicking up dust. When she disarms him, he takes his hunting blades. He is fast with them, much faster, and Clytemnestra struggles to keep him away. She throws her spear at him, and as he wards it off, she grabs a shorter sword from the ground. Their arms move quickly, one blow after another, until they are exhausted, sweat pouring down their backs. They stop fighting together.
His face is twisted, his daggers abandoned in the dust. He retrieves his sword carefully, cleaning it on his tunic. She wonders if it was his father’s but doesn’t ask. Instead, she picks up her own knife and says, “You look different when you fight.”
“So do you.” His head is bent, and his profile is handsome in the golden light of the torch. How do I look different? she wants to ask, but he is quicker. “Who gave you that knife?”
“My mother,” she says. “It is the sharpest blade I’ve ever touched.” She holds it out for him to see. As he caresses the blade with his finger, she adds, “But you are not afraid of a little sharpness, are you?”
He looks up at her, and she holds his gaze. Leon was right. He is like a wounded animal, ready to bite at the first provocation. But he is no rabid dog—rabid dogs are weak because they are mad. Aegisthus isn’t mad. He is strong and manipulative, his rage boiling inside him but always kept at bay. He is more like a wolf, showing his teeth to those who come too close.
He smiles. “Sometimes it is better to bleed than to feel nothing at all.”
*
She avoids dinner and goes to the bathhouse to clean herself. Her tunic is dusty, her hair messy and tangled. The lamps are already lit, streams of light in the quiet darkness. She takes off her chiton, brushing her fingers against her stomach, the fading cuts on her arms. There is an edge to her. The water of the bath is cold, and she shivers.
“My queen.” A voice chirping in the darkness, like a bird at sunrise. Aileen. Her steps come closer, soft as raindrops. “Lord Aegisthus came to eat and you weren’t there,” she says, “so I thought I would find you here.”
“Warm the water, Aileen,” Clytemnestra orders.
Aileen hurries to light the fire, her shadow on the wall small and sharp. The water grows warmer, wrapping Clytemnestra like a sheepskin. Aileen starts scrubbing her with soap. Clytemnestra offers her hands and arms, and Aileen touches the soap to the soft inside of her elbow.
“Chrysothemis couldn’t sleep last night,” she says. “She has been having bad dreams again.”
Clytemnestra looks at her face in the shadows. Aileen never had children of her own, but maybe she should have. Once, Leon suggested she was pretty, his tone casual as if to test how Clytemnestra would feel about it. She discouraged it. Two loyal servants together can’t be easily controlled. It is much more useful to pair a loyal dog with a more difficult subject to keep him under control.
“Perhaps she should sleep with you tonight,” Aileen continues.
“She is fourteen years old. She is a woman now, not a child, and she needs to behave like one.”
Aileen doesn’t speak, but her eyes are sad. Clytemnestra knows she disapproves. One night, a year or so after Iphigenia’s murder, she had the gall to tell her that she was too cold, too detached from her daughters. “Electra and Chrysothemis need you, my queen,” she said. “You don’t speak to them. You don’t touch them.” Clytemnestra wanted to strike her, but she kept silent—she couldn’t afford to lose Aileen. She wouldn’t trust anyone else to take care of her children.
“I will talk to her in the morning,” Clytemnestra adds, keeping her voice as sweet as she can. “But wipe that disapproving expression from your face, Aileen. You are not the goddess Hera.”
Aileen chuckles, and as she cleans Clytemnestra’s neck, her touch becomes gentler. There, Clytemnestra thinks. That is how easy loyalty is for some. They are satisfied with crumbs.
*
Brushed and cleaned, she goes to the dining hall. The smell of meat is strong and inviting, and she looks at the leftovers as servants hurry to take everything away. The house dogs keep close to her, sniffing for scraps on the floor. Leon appears by the door and sends them away with a flick of his hand.
“Bring some wine for the queen,” he orders the servants. “You can finish clearing later.”
Clytemnestra sits on the chair at the head of the table. She accepts the wine a woman gives her and sips. Leon sits next to her.
“How was dinner?” she asks.
“The elders joined,” he says. “They were wondering why you weren’t there.”
“Did you tell them it was because I didn’t want to see their wrinkled faces?”
“No,” he says with a small smile.
“You should have.” She can almost picture them, staring at Aegisthus like foxes around a chick. She finishes the wine and Leon pours more for her. The servants have all disappeared. The door is closed, and there are only their shadows on the floor.
“I have heard them whisper in the corridors today,” Leon says. “They spoke about you and Aegisthus.”
“I thought we had enough women whispering around this palace.”
Leon plays with the handle of his dagger. “Some said that a woman should not wear a crown. Others defended you.”
“What exactly did they say?”
Leon hesitates. She gives him time and drinks more. This is not the first time she has heard the elders’ discontent.
“They said that your power is like ‘the plague among soldiers.’”
“Who said this exactly?”
“Polydamas.”
“Ah, of course.” One of her husband’s most faithful dogs. Throw him a bone and he’ll bring it back, wagging his tail. But he doesn’t like women. He keeps his own wife and daughters in the house, never to see the light of day. Clytemnestra wanted to have him killed many times, but she knows that would send the wrong message to the others. So she has tried to deal with him, however you can deal with someone else’s dog.
“What do you think, Leon?” she asks. “Am I like the plague?”
“No, my queen.” He looks at her, then away, at the weapons gleaming on the walls. “But you can be intimidating. You are like the sun. If one looks too long, he’ll be blinded.”
She can feel the love, the reverence in his tone. She should reward him for that. If she pushes away her own loyal servants, why should anyone follow her?
“Then why do you think the elders might say such a thing?” she asks.
Leon leans back a little, as he always does when he is thinking. One of his eyes, the right one, is still half-shut from the beatings at Aulis. “They see themselves in your place. They think they could do better what you do. They dream of their own kingdoms, their own crowns.”
His answer pleases her. He can be astute when she forces him to think. He would make a good ruler if it weren’t for his common blood.
“And how do you think I should make them understand that their kingdoms are nothing more than a dream?”
“You can’t. I imagine that is a ruler’s burden to bear.” He stands and the bench scrapes loudly. “Now I will leave you, my queen. You should rest.”
He bows and walks toward the door.
“Come here, Leon.”
He stops. When he turns back, pleasure is plain on his face. He covers the steps between them and kneels next to her chair. She touches his hair, draws him to her. His lips on hers taste of home and sorrow.
“Someone might come,” he says, breathless, as he lifts her tunic.
“Let them,” she says. “I am queen. I do as I please.”
This excites him, the thought like a drug running through his veins. She lets him inside her, her arms around his shoulders, his breathing ragged on her neck.