How wrong this is, she thinks, how unjust. Does he think of Iphigenia when he looks at me? Does he still remember her smell, the softness of her skin against his? He never speaks of her, but Clytemnestra feels his pain growing inside him, in every crack and wound, every hollowed space.
He clings to her for a while when he is done, his skin damp on her chest. She lets him, staring at the light thinning as the torches go out. When the room falls dark, she searches for a feeling inside her—grief, safety, anger, pleasure, anything.
Sometimes it is better to bleed than to feel nothing at all.
Is it?
28
Broken People
OUTSIDE THE WINDOWS, autumn is creeping in. The leaves glow bright and red on the trees, and cold nights frost the grass. It makes Clytemnestra think of Aegisthus’s eyes. There are no birds singing, no figures moving. It seems as if the land has stopped to rest.
“My queen, we should discuss matters of the throne.”
Polydamas’s screeching voice brings her inside. In the megaron, the elders are sitting around her in a semicircle. Rather than being on her throne, she is standing by the windows. Their presence makes her feel in need of air.
“What is there to discuss about the throne?” she asks.
“If King Agamemnon doesn’t come back from the war—” Polydamas starts.
She interrupts him. “Whether the king does or doesn’t come back from the war makes no difference. I am queen now, and my son will be king next.”
Polydamas keeps quiet. If she hates him when he speaks, she likes him even less when he is quiet. She can hear his mind spinning, weaving plots against her.
“The traitor Aegisthus might pose a problem,” Cadmus says. He reminds her of a bruised apple, one of those left on the ground until someone steps on them. At least he tends to favor Clytemnestra on most matters.
“You should send him away or imprison him,” Polydamas says. “He has a claim on the throne.”
“My husband used to say that it is better to keep your enemies close.” That is a lie. Agamemnon never said such a thing. But she has noticed that whenever she mentions him, the elders struggle to contradict her.
“Then imprison him,” Polydamas repeats.
“You underestimate me, as usual,” she says.
“How so, my queen?”
“You believe I let Aegisthus eat at my table and walk around my palace without having a plan. You do not consider that I might be trying to understand him better, to manipulate him.”
“Men don’t manipulate their enemies. They force them into submission.”
She laughs bitterly. “I thought you served my husband. Who can manipulate better than Agamemnon? The king you so blindly follow has risen to power thanks to his deceits. And what about Odysseus, king of Ithaca?” The name stings on her tongue but she speaks it nonetheless. “Is he called a hero because of his strength or because of his tricks?”
Cadmus nods, and so do a few others.
Polydamas shifts in his seat. “You are mistaken if you think you are the only one ready to manipulate,” he says. “Aegisthus will try to do the same. He has come here for power, not to bend to a woman.”
“A queen,” she corrects him.
“Yes, a queen.”
“I will keep Aegisthus under control. And if he tries to hurt me or usurp my throne, he will pay for it.”
The elders seem to relax in their seats. They are such cowards that a single man can unsettle them so.
“You will never doubt me again on this matter,” she adds, sitting back on her throne. A murmur of assent. “Is there anything else to discuss?”
“We haven’t spoken of Troy yet, my queen,” Cadmus says.
It is true. She hasn’t asked because her scouts keep her well informed, though nothing much has happened. The city hasn’t fallen yet.
“A plague has struck the Greek army,” Cadmus continues. “Many of our men are dying. They say it is Apollo who must be placated.”
She almost raises her eyes to the ceiling. She is tired of hearing about the gods. “Has the king been struck?” she asks.
“No. But the plague is subtle, my queen,” Polydamas replies. “It strikes without mercy and without regard for rank and honor.”
She caresses the rings on her fingers, enjoying the uncomfortable silence that follows. “It’s odd that you should talk about the plague in such terms, Polydamas,” she says.
“Why?”
“I thought you said that a woman in command can be like the plague among soldiers.” She looks him straight in the eye, placing each word carefully.
He doesn’t blush or mumble. He holds his ground. “I said it and I believe it.” There is no arrogance in his tone, just a hideous matter-of-factness. The honesty of a man who believes he can say whatever he thinks.
“I am aware that many of you consider you might rule this city better than I do,” she says. “That because I am a woman, I should put your counsel before my own. That my husband was a better ruler, more fit.”
Some look away from her, uncomfortable. Others blush but keep staring at her, bold.
“Yet Mycenae has grown richer under my command, despite the loss of men and resources at war—a war my husband wanted. So as long as I am on this throne, you will give your counsel and respect my choices.”
And if we don’t? she can almost hear them think.
Then I will cut out your tongues.
*
In the practice yard, she finds her son, a ray of sun on a cloudy day. He is teaching the younger boys to shoot, a lion’s skin across his shoulders.
“They are learning fast today, Mother,” he says when she joins him.
“Are you shooting arrows only?” she asks.
“Yes, for today. But we will work with spears and axes soon.”
They take a few steps away from the yard. The cold grass crackles under their feet. She fixes a curl behind his ear, and he smiles as if to tell her, I am no child now, Mother.
“You should come to my meetings with the elders more,” she says.
“Why? You manage them much better than I could.”
“You must learn to manage them too. You will be king one day, and there are still things you need to learn. The elders are like snakes. They creep up behind you and strike you in the back if you are not ready to defend yourself.”
“Why don’t we simply eliminate them?”
“A city needs its elders. Every queen or king must have counselors.”
“You are my counselor,” he says.
“I am,” she says, smiling, “and now I am counseling you to come and listen to the elders so you can learn to see their lies.”
He laughs. “I will come, and I will try not to murder Cadmus when he speaks of the tragedies that await us. Last time I heard him, he was raving about some beggars possessed by the Furies.”
“Today it was the plague.”
He shakes his head as if to say, See? then runs back to the yard. Clytemnestra watches as the boys tear after him, gazing at him in awe. When he was a child, there were times when she feared for him—that he wouldn’t be able to face confrontation, wouldn’t know how to defeat his enemies. But Orestes has learned that and much more. He has learned how to inspire love and respect, which most princes of his age overlook. Men are often blinded by power, the priestess in Sparta had once told Clytemnestra. But not her son. He is still a man, so some things he will never understand—he will never have to—but Clytemnestra has taught him the most important thing of all: that power alone doesn’t buy you a kingdom.
*
On the high stone walls of the citadel, the wind is as cold as snow. Clouds are dropping on the land around her, slowly swallowing the landscape, from the mountain peaks to the lower hills and streams. Helen used to dream of being able to command the clouds. She would lie on the grass, close her eyes, and ask them to move faster, the wind to blow stronger, the sun to burn brighter.
“It won’t work,” Clytemnestra would say.
“You should lie down too,” Helen always replied, tugging at her sister’s tunic. “If we can unite our wills, we are stronger.”
So Clytemnestra would lie down. When the wind didn’t blow and the sun didn’t burn, she would take Helen’s hand and say, “I think it hears us but doesn’t want to listen. The wind can be spoiled sometimes.”
Helen would smile. They both knew it was a lie, but it kept them closer and happier.