It shocks her when he speaks of his failings and weaknesses. The only other men she has known to do that were Tantalus and Odysseus, but they would do it in a way that asserted their power. They spoke of their mistakes to achieve something, to soften and bend the world to their will. That was what Tantalus had done to win her over. Aegisthus doesn’t speak of his failures to gain a reward. His purposelessness appalls her.
“Atreus’s men found Pelopia and brought her to the palace. I remember thinking she was too young to be my mother, but I brought her to the megaron nonetheless. Atreus ordered Thyestes to be brought there too. Pelopia didn’t cry when she saw her father. I showed her the sword and told her it belonged to him. She looked at him, at the sword, then at me. Her eyes were like fire. She jumped forward and grabbed the sword from my hands.
“When she stabbed herself in the stomach, no one did anything. We all stayed and watched as she gurgled and died in her own blood. When I looked up, Atreus was smiling on his throne. The sun was on his face and he was laughing. I hated him then, for all he had done to me. I pulled the sword out of Pelopia’s body and thrust it into Atreus’s neck.”
“What did Agamemnon do?”
“He ran away with Menelaus. He could have stayed and wrestled—he was always stronger than me—but he knew that not all the guards would side with him after Atreus’s death. We took back the palace then, Thyestes and I.”
“You gave your loyalty to a man who raped his own daughter.” She doesn’t mean to insult him, but the words come out as blades.
“I had no one else,” he replies.
She touches his head and he closes his eyes. They are silent for a long time, until the rain outside lightens. She traces his jaw with a finger. He has told her his secrets and now it is her duty to carry them, like gems.
And what about my secrets?
“I saw a few dead women too,” she says. “Some in the helot village down in Sparta, starved to death. One giving birth. But one I killed myself. She took something from me, so I paid her back. I stabbed her in her home and watched her die.”
He opens his eyes. She draws away her hand, waiting. Her words float between them. He will grow angry now, or scared. He will become cold, his face like ice, his eyes distrustful. It is one thing to fall for a fierce queen but another to love a woman who is ruthless enough to deal out death to her enemies.
He will crawl away, like they all do, and hate me.
But he doesn’t. He brushes his lips against her forehead and says, “She must have been a fool for thinking she could take something from you.”
*
They come alive at night, when the rest of the palace is sleeping. Servants must suspect that something is happening between them, but even if they do, they are too afraid to speak. During the day, Aegisthus keeps his distance, wandering in the woods and training alone. It is cold outside, though the winter isn’t merciless. Sometimes the sun appears between the clouds, shiny and timid, a promise of warmth and spring.
“A woman in the kitchen told me Aegisthus visits your room every night,” Aileen says to her one day. They are in the gardens, Aileen weaving dried flowers into Clytemnestra’s hair.
“What did you say?” Clytemnestra asks.
“I didn’t know how to reply.”
She wonders what it would feel like to be Aileen. So gentle, loyal, true. She is like one of those dogs rescued from an alley, frightened at first but, once you win them over, always loyal to their master.
“Do you think it unwise,” Clytemnestra says, “that I sleep with Aegisthus?”
“Maybe,” she replies. “He is a broken man.”
“And?”
“Broken men are hard to handle.” She gives her a small smile as if to excuse her boldness of judgment.
“I find broken men easier to handle,” Clytemnestra says.
“Sometimes, yes. But Aegisthus will start to love you, because you are strong and beautiful, and then he will always want to be by your side.”
He already does.
“You are saying that I will never get rid of him because he loves me?”
Aileen smooths back her own hair. It is tied in a long plait, but some rebellious strands fall down on her cheeks. She nods hesitantly. Clytemnestra thinks it through while Aileen rests her head back to enjoy the cold sun on her pale skin. Sometimes she glances at her queen, and Clytemnestra can’t help but notice how her eyes are like the sky above them and her hair rich like the earth under their feet.
*
At dinner, she calls for Orestes. The long table is empty—she has ordered everyone to stay away.
“What is it, Mother?” Orestes says. “Did news come from Troy?” He is studying her face, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth.
“I have slept with Aegisthus,” she says. Sooner or later, he would know anyway. Better from her than from someone else. She watches the blow fall as he puts down the cloth and fills his cup to the brim.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because people will talk soon, and you must not believe them.”
“Why did you do it?”
“To control him better,” she lies.
He pours some wine for her too. “Whatever you do, Mother, I trust you. I never listen to idle gossip.”
“This time you must. I want you to listen to what everyone says in the palace—servants, soldiers, children, elders. If you hear anyone speak treason, you tell me.”
Someone will betray her for this, she knows it. And she will have to handle it. She thinks of Leon’s hurt, disappointed face when he finds out. You are the queen. He has no say in deciding whom you sleep with. You owe him nothing.
Orestes sits back and his voice breaks through her thoughts. “The elders won’t like it.”
“They don’t like me already, so I doubt this will change anything.”
“They will have a reason to plot against you now.”
She smiles, takes his hand in hers. “Which will finally give me a reason to get rid of them.”
*
When she goes back to her room, Aegisthus is standing by the window, sharpening his dagger against a piece of stone. She kisses his neck from behind, but he stiffens, his muscles pulled taut.
“That servant of yours,” he says, “the one with red hair.”
“What about her?”
“I think I recognize her. She was here when my father was king, wasn’t she?”
Clytemnestra watches as he feels the tip of the dagger with his fingers. “She was.”
“I saved her,” he rasps.
“She is grateful for what you did.”
“I have shown my weakness. When others come to know about it, they will destroy me.”
“Aileen is faithful to me and won’t speak of the past if I order her not to.”
He looks around, the dagger tight in his hand. His body is always tense, his face always shifting. She takes the blade, puts it aside.
“The gods crush those who show their weakness,” he says. “Atreus said that when I was young. Love breeds weakness.”
“You’re not weak,” she says. Her words are butterfly’s wings, folding and unfolding in the semidarkness.
He yanks away from her and sits on the bed. Clytemnestra waits for him to come back to her, for the anger to fade. After a long moment, she moves toward him.
“Do you hear me? You are not weak,” she repeats.
The frost in his eyes slowly melts, like ice in spring. He leans forward. She can almost feel his lips on hers when someone knocks at the door. She startles. It is getting dark outside. Something bad must have happened if her men disturb her.
When she opens, Leon is on the other side. He looks at her, then at Aegisthus sitting on the bed. She is aware of her bare arms and loose hair.
“They told me, but I didn’t believe it,” Leon says quietly.
She stares at him as he grows pale, breathless. She hasn’t seen him so agitated in a long time.
“I warned you that he is dangerous,” he says, speaking of Aegisthus as if he weren’t a few feet from them.
“You did. And I thank you for your counsel.”
“You let him in here!” he shouts. “You disgrace yourself.”
“You will not speak to me like that,” she says. “Or I will doubt your loyalty.”
He tightens his fists. “My loyalty . . . This man murdered his uncle so he could rule Mycenae,” he spits out. “You believe he won’t do the same to you?”
Aegisthus stands but Clytemnestra stops him. “Leave,” she tells Leon.
“How can you trust him?”
“I said leave. I will see you in the megaron in the morning.”