She starts to go after him in secret, in the early hours of the morning, before she meets the elders and petitioners in the megaron, and in the late afternoon when he practices. She is careful, for she knows he can easily catch her. He is a watchdog, ever patient.
She follows him in the narrow streets of the citadel and up the hills and mountains. In the practice yard and in the bathhouse. She is always close enough to see what he is doing but far enough to vanish if he turns. And he often turns. He walks as if hunted, casting a backward glance every now and then.
After practice, he dives into the narrow streets of the citadel close to the back gate. It is the busiest time of day, with men passing barrels of grain and wine from hand to hand, dogs sniffing around every corner, older women lining every door like sentinels. Aegisthus moves like a shadow, his figure sharp on the pale walls, and Clytemnestra follows, a mantle pulled over her head. They pass the baskets of onions and apples, the vendors cleaning their hands from the blood of butchered animals, the women with cheap jewels and lined eyes.
After walking in the maze of side alleys, Aegisthus always visits the tavern where artists and merchants eat. He sits in the darkest corner by the wine barrels and drinks by himself. No one pays him much attention. The tables are crammed with traders singing obscene songs and men eating bread and meat, juices dripping from their beards. The little lamps spread around the place burn like embers from a dying fire.
Clytemnestra watches from outside, a crack in the wooden wall showing her enough of the room. The people who pass by pay her no heed, being mainly drunks and slave women. She never stays long, returning to the streets shortly before dinner.
One night, a merchant catches sight of Aegisthus. He is boasting about a trade of precious amber that filled his pockets with gold when his eyes find the corner where Aegisthus is sitting. He studies him as a hawk his prey.
“Are you the cursed man?” he asks, stumbling down the rows of tables, visibly drunk. “The traitor Aegisthus?” His voice is loud, and the other men stop and listen.
Clytemnestra can see enough of Aegisthus’s face to witness his rage. The merchant is a fat man, hairs running thick on his chest and hands. Aegisthus could knock him down with a slap, yet he says nothing.
“It is you, isn’t it?” the merchant continues with a grimace, stopping in front of Aegisthus. His cheeks are flushed and he is streaming with sweat. Everyone is quiet now, leaning forward, waiting.
“It is,” Aegisthus confirms quietly. His jaw is tightened and his fists are clenched. Now he will cut the man in two, Clytemnestra thinks.
“You’re a marked man,” the merchant says, “coming to our city when the king is gone, living in the palace as a guest after all those years in hiding. You’re either a coward, or you hope to fuck the queen!” There is a burst of laughter. Then the merchant spits at Aegisthus.
The laughter dies down and the man waits, his smile like a viper’s. Aegisthus stands slowly, wiping his arm. There is anger on his face, but grief and sadness too. Clytemnestra can almost see the boy he must have been, shunned, teased, and rejected.
And yet he doesn’t strike the merchant. He leaves the room, the whispers of the others following him like hungry rats. Clytemnestra watches him hurry in the darkening street until his figure fades in the thinning light and disappears.
*
When the sun starts setting, dropping from the sky like a burning ball of hay, Clytemnestra runs back to the garden to think about her beloved Iphigenia.
She remembers her cheeks and the curve of her neck. Her sweet voice and clever questions. The way she frowned when she played the lyre, narrowed her eyes when she wanted to learn something new. As always, the peaceful memories are stained by her daughter’s calls for help. By her blood streaking the altar stone. The brutal indifference on Agamemnon’s face.
Every evening, she uses the thoughts to weave her net of vengeance.
*
She has been spying on Aegisthus for ten days when something unexpected happens.
Clytemnestra is sitting in the back room of the tavern, Leon at her side. When he found her sneaking out the back door of the palace, he insisted on following her. She let him, knowing he would anyway.
Aegisthus is drinking in the main room, alone as usual, oblivious to their presence. They have asked the old man at the entrance to keep the room to themselves, and he didn’t ask any questions. Now they are sitting in the darkness, spying on Aegisthus from behind the dirty curtain.
Next to him, a group of merchants are drinking and singing, thumping the table. Clytemnestra has recognized the small trader she knocked insensible years ago. Beady eyes, voice as sticky as honey, sun-darkened face. They have been drinking like beasts, shouting for more meat and wine. “And not that cheap piss from Kos!” They laugh as the old man prepares the drink in a mixer. “Give us the one from Rhodes!”
As the small man grabs his cup, his arm catches the empty jug. It topples and shatters on the floor, the last drops of wine forming a small puddle. A girl comes out of the shadows to clean. She cannot be older than fourteen, her hair tied in plaits the color of almonds. She picks up the broken pieces, shivering, her eyes staring fixedly at the ground. The small man kneels next to her with a smile. Then, before she can speak, he grabs her hair and drags her to her feet.
“Look at this one!” he shouts. “Look at this face.”
The girl reminds Clytemnestra of a rabbit trapped by hounds. The other merchants stare at her, sizing her up, their tongues darting across their lips. One walks closer to her, puts his hands around her hips.
“She is all yours, Erebus,” he tells the small man. “No breasts, no hips. If you fuck this one, she breaks in two.”
The others laugh, and Clytemnestra feels Leon shaking his head next to her. “We should leave,” he says, touching her arm.
“We stay,” she orders.
Erebus tilts his head, caressing the girl’s hair. Then he tears her tunic and she gasps. Her body is skinny like a starving dog’s, her breasts like two tiny figs. “You’re right,” Erebus says, disgusted. “No breasts. Still, I’ll take her.”
The girl cries softly, her hands clutching at her dress, trying to cover herself. Leon looks away. The man at the entrance keeps pouring water and honey into a large mixing bowl, though his arms are shaking. He doesn’t wish for trouble. Coward. Clytemnestra is considering what to do when Aegisthus comes out of his corner. The traders look at him as if they have just noticed him.
“Maybe you want her, friend,” Erebus hisses, annoyed at the interruption.
Aegisthus shakes his head. Fast, so fast the merchants don’t even see it, he yanks a dagger from his belt and sinks it into Erebus’s hand, pinning it to the table. Erebus shouts, and blood spurts onto his tunic.
“Do you know how long it takes to bleed to death?” Aegisthus says. He looks like a wild animal. “Not long if you keep losing blood like that.”
The traders step back, Erebus’s moans a warning.
“You should leave,” Aegisthus says to the girl. She nods, her face a mask of fear, and rushes away. Taking advantage of the distraction, Erebus pulls out the knife, blood spattering, and cuts Aegisthus’s hand. It is a superficial cut, and Aegisthus looks at it as if it were a fleabite. Then he punches Erebus, knocking him out, and retrieves his dagger.
As he walks away, Clytemnestra touches Leon’s arm. “Go and find my daughters,” she whispers. “Prepare them for dinner. I will come soon.”
*
She finds Aegisthus in the armory, grunting as he tries to wrap a piece of tunic around his hand. He looks angry and tired.
The wooden door creaks as she opens it, and his head jerks up. She stands there, framed by the door, the light of a torch warming her cheeks. “Why did you protect that girl?” she asks.
He clutches his hand tightly. “You have been following me.”
“Just as you followed me up the mountain.”
There is a tense silence. The scents of wine and blood come from his skin.
“Did you know her?” Clytemnestra asks. He must be worn out, but she doesn’t care. She wants answers.
“Who?”
“The girl you helped.”