“My queen.”
She turns. Aegisthus is a few steps behind her, watching her. He always gets past the guards—she should tell them to be more observant.
“Your daughter came to talk to me,” he says.
“Which one?”
“Electra.”
She frowns, surprised. Electra rarely goes to talk to anyone.
“What did she want?”
“She told me that the elders don’t want me in the palace and that you are fighting them.” He studies her, waiting for a reaction. When she keeps silent, he adds, “But I think she wanted me to tell her why I have come here.”
“That is Electra’s way, yes. She talks to make you talk. You must frustrate her.”
“How so?”
“She can’t know anything about you. You are an enigma.”
He frowns. “Everyone knows plenty about me. Wherever I go, my family’s curse precedes me.”
“I don’t think that interests Electra. She is always looking for what others think or feel, what they fear or desire. Knowledge about your family is something she can easily have, and that is why she doesn’t want it.”
He comes closer until they are standing next to each other, a sea of gray all around them. He could throw her down the walls now if he wanted to.
“My father used to come here and watch every man, woman, and child in the village,” he says after a while.
“Why?” she asks.
“To decide whom he would flog or kill. He would see enemies everywhere.”
“I am not your father.”
Pain passes over his face, but she doesn’t turn away. She likes to see his sorrow because it feels intimate, something he wouldn’t show to anyone else. His features are blurring in the thickening mist, and she finds herself wishing she could touch him before he disappears.
“No, I can see that,” he says. “You’re not cruel and yet you hold a kingdom together. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
*
One of her warlords dies, so the elders call a council to replace him. Clytemnestra asks Orestes and Electra to stay in the megaron with her as the best young men from their army offer their swords to her. One by one, they approach the throne, the watchful eyes of the elders studying them from the shadows, and introduce themselves and their deeds.
I won every wrestling match last year, my queen.
My father gave his life on the Trojan battlefield.
My brother dealt with the villagers’ riot two winters ago.
It isn’t an easy choice. The warlords must patrol the streets of the citadel, protect Mycenae against foreign invasions, and crush revolts within the city walls. Most of the warriors left with Agamemnon nine years ago, and Clytemnestra has been building a strong army to replace them.
“It would be an honor to serve you, my queen Clytemnestra.”
She looks up. The man in front of her is young, with a lean face, like a hunting dog’s. He looks at Electra briefly, then back at Clytemnestra.
“I have been beating every other man in the practice yard for years.” He looks at Orestes. “Your son is always there. He can speak for me.”
“Kyros is a good soldier,” Orestes says carefully. Clytemnestra doesn’t comment, and Kyros feels compelled to speak again.
“We’ve met before, my queen, although I am not sure you remember. I am Eurybates’s son. Your husband respected my father, who died fighting beside him across the sea.”
“I remember you,” she says with a cold smile. “The boy who tried to rape my daughters.”
Electra looks away. The elders start whispering, and Clytemnestra quiets them.
“You wanted to flog me years ago, my queen,” Kyros says. “You were right. I disrespected your daughters, and they showed me never to underestimate a woman in return. In every mistake, there is always a lesson to be learned.” She can tell he has been rehearsing his little speech, though he is careful enough to look honest as he speaks.
“How many mistakes does it take to make a decent man?” she asks.
Silence. Clytemnestra stares at the flames dancing in the hearth, their shadows lapping at Kyros’s feet.
“Would you have Kyros next to you in war, Orestes?” she asks her son. “Can you trust a man who offended your sisters?”
Again, Orestes speaks slowly. “Kyros is a good partner during practice. He always helps a friend in need.” Kyros nods to him, grateful.
Clytemnestra sits back, feeling Electra’s eyes on her. “Very well. Then I will have your sword, Kyros. You will fight for me, next to my son and the other warlords.”
Silence again. Then Kyros kneels, his face warm with pride. When he stands, he and Orestes exchange a glance.
“This is your chance to make your queen proud,” Clytemnestra says. “Do not waste it.”
“Thank you, my queen.”
When he has gone, Clytemnestra orders the elders to leave her with her children. The hall feels lighter, cooler without them. She asks the servants to bring wine and turns to Electra. Her daughter is standing in the shadows, brooding. She has kept silent throughout the day, torturing the hem of her purple dress as the men tried to win her mother’s attention. Clytemnestra knows that she too is remembering when Kyros tried to hurt her, when Clytemnestra sent the boy away and Electra said, “At least Father treats us all the same.” But he didn’t, did he?
You have become like him, she can hear Electra think. You think of your throne and kingdom before anyone else now.
“Are you sure of this, Mother?” Orestes asks. Glints of fire from the torches shine on his handsome face.
“I gave Kyros that position to show the elders that there is a second chance for those who are disloyal.” Besides, his father is dead, so now Kyros’s family will be loyal to me, not to Agamemnon.
“You won’t regret it. Kyros is the best warrior among those who trained with me.”
“Good. Because he is not a good person.”
Orestes smiles and covers her hand with his own. “Do good men make good warlords?”
*
Once, three or four years ago, Clytemnestra asked her daughters what kind of husband they wanted. It was summer and they were in the garden. The trees were heavy with fruit, and birds were flying from branch to branch, eating cherries, chirping. Their feathers were brilliant in the sunlight.
Chrysothemis considered the question. She was still too little to think about husbands, but she liked speaking to her mother in the garden, away from the trouble of the palace, from the hisses of the elders and the emptiness of the gynaeceum. “One who stays with the family,” she said after a while. “One who doesn’t die.”
Clytemnestra laughed then. Of all the things she might have said . . . Electra laughed too and the birds twittered. Chrysothemis took her sister’s hand and asked, “What about you, Electra?”
Electra replied instantly, as if she had thought about it many times already. “I want a man who can get what he wants. One who understands me and at the same time frightens others with his brilliant mind.”
Maybe she would have liked Odysseus. The thought filled Clytemnestra with unspeakable bitterness.
*
Electra is in the courtyard, looking at the frescoed griffins. Her hair is loose on her back, and on her hands are the rings her sister used to wear. Clytemnestra takes a step forward before seeing that Leon is with her daughter, leaning against a red column. She moves back into a corner, next to some jugs of oil lined against the wall, and listens to them as they speak.
“She used to wear more,” Leon is saying, touching the rings. “Three or four on each finger.” He closes his eyes and rests his head against the column.
“Do you miss her?” Electra asks.
“We all do.” He waits, takes a deep breath. “Your mother more than anyone else.”
Electra bites her lip, lowers her eyes. “She never talks to me about her.”
“It is too painful for her.”
The shadows grow longer on the floor, like fingers reaching out for each other, looking for some sort of comfort.
“You love her now?” Electra asks.
Leon doesn’t seem shocked by the question. “I’ve always served her,” he says simply.