“You really didn’t hear that word, did you?” Helen asks suddenly. She is still walking ahead so Clytemnestra can’t see her face.
“No.”
“Those women called me teras.” The word is cutting on her lips. Portent, it means, like a rainbow that appears over the clouds, but also freak, like a gorgon, the monster with snakes as hair. “They’ve been saying this in the gymnasium too.”
Clytemnestra is angry. “Why? Why would they say that?”
Helen turns. Her cheeks are crimson, her eyes full of tears. It is painful to watch her face, the sadness it shows. “They think that Tyndareus isn’t my father. That I was born after Zeus raped Leda. They believe this, but they don’t say it to my face.”
Clytemnestra takes a deep breath. “Let’s go back to the shop.” Her brother is right: some people must be taught a lesson.
“I thought you were in a hurry to see Tantalus,” Helen replies, her voice bitter.
Then she is walking, almost running up the cobbled street that leads back to the palace. Clytemnestra stays in the blinding light of the square, her mother’s tunic crumpling in her hands. She wishes the light would scorch her so Helen could see her pain.
*
Back in the half-deserted stables, Tantalus is feeding a chestnut stallion. She walks to him slowly, as if she hadn’t run the whole way. When he sees her, he gives the horse a last handful of hay, then turns to her. “I have just heard that you were recently injured in a fight,” he says.
“It was nothing. I sprained my ankle.”
His eyes are a bright blue, like a gemstone catching light always in a different way but safe, like the crystal clear water of the shore, never too deep, never too scary.
“Do you fight?” she asks.
“Yes, but not like you. We fight with weapons.”
“What happens when someone attacks you and you have no weapon?”
Tantalus laughs. “There are guards around us.”
“There are no guards now.”
He smiles, opens his arms. “Fight me, if you want. So we shall see if we barbaroi earn the name you have given us.” He doesn’t speak with anger or contempt. “But I warn you, I am afraid I am no match for you.”
She is surprised. She doesn’t know any man who speaks like this. “Maybe we should fight with weapons then.”
Tantalus moves forward, one, two, three steps. “Oh, I am sure you would be stronger still. I have heard that you always fight to win.”
“And you don’t?”
Tantalus is close now: she can see the little lines around his eyes. “I never had to fight to earn anything in my life. That is my condemnation, my weakness.”
Again, surprise. The men Clytemnestra knows don’t speak of their weaknesses. She considers what he said. A life like that is hard to imagine.
“I can see that with you it must be different,” Tantalus adds, “so I will try again and again, if you will have me.”
“And if I will not?”
“Then I will go back to Maeonia. And I will have learned how painful it is not to have what you desire.”
“That would be good for you.”
“I am not so sure.”
Clytemnestra leans back, even though she wants to touch his face. She wants to feel his smooth skin under her hand, to press her body against his. But all good things must wait. So she leaves him empty-handed.
*
They start going together to the river, day after day. They walk under the sinking sun of the late afternoon, when the earth is still warm beneath their feet. As they sit with their legs dangling in the water and the reeds tickling their backs, Tantalus tells her stories of the people he has met and the lands he has visited, of the gods he worships and the myths he enjoys. He tells her about the Hittites, with their war chariots and storm gods. He describes Crete, its mighty palace, each wall covered with rich colors and patterns warmed by the sun. He tells her about the first ruler of Maeonia and his proud daughter, Niobe, whose seven sons and daughters Artemis killed.
“Niobe wouldn’t stop crying,” Tantalus says, “so the gods turned her into stone. But even then water kept streaming on the rock.”
He tells her of Colchis, the wondrous land of Ae?tes, son of the sun, and the spells he conjures to terrify his people. “Dust warriors fight for him, dragons too. And now he has a daughter, Medea. They say she is dangerous. They say she is a witch, just like her father.”
“Maybe she won’t be dangerous,” Clytemnestra points out.
“Maybe,” Tantalus says, “but children usually grow up to be like their parents.”
“And what about your parents?”
Tantalus speaks of the rulers of Maeonia, the fathers of gold and silver coins. Clytemnestra can see he likes to tell these stories. She doesn’t care much for myths—she has grown up with her father and brothers, who look at the world with no enchantment or illusion. But Tantalus is a gifted storyteller, so she listens.
As he speaks, she is stricken by how wonderful and scary it is to hang on his every word and to wish she could listen to him forever. It is like jumping over the edge of a cliff and falling, her heart racing, yet always longing for more.
*
In the next few days, Clytemnestra watches her parents as she has never done before.
When commoners walk in the megaron with their pleas, Leda speaks and gives orders, but only when Tyndareus asks for her opinion. At dinner, when he glances at the servant girls—carelessly enough for his wife to see—Leda drains her wine in silence, though there are sparks in her eyes as if she were ready to catch fire. Clytemnestra sees that her mother challenges her father and that he likes her for it, but only up to a point. Play with the wolf too much, and he’ll rip off your arm.
As Clytemnestra watches, she feels like a weaver, spinning each thread, eager to see the final tapestry. She sees that her mother can be two different people and that the best version appears when her father isn’t around.
Is this what happens when one falls in love and marries? Clytemnestra wonders. Is this what a woman gives up? All her life, she has been taught courage, strength, resilience, but must those qualities be kept at bay with a husband? But it is also true that her father listens to her when she speaks, and Tantalus looks at her as if she were a goddess.
The thoughts burn and flicker, and she tries to drown them.
It doesn’t matter what Leda or Tyndareus does. Her grandmother told her she will be queen, and so it will be.
She will bow to no one. Her destiny will be what she wants it to be.
*
Her brothers must leave. A heroic expedition, to the rich land of Colchis. A messenger arrives to give the news at dawn, sweat pouring through his tunic after the long trip. Clytemnestra watches him from the terrace as he dismounts from his horse and meets Castor and Polydeuces at the entrance to the palace. They haven’t had any visitors since Tantalus’s arrival, and she is surprised to see that the man lingers by the door to speak to her brothers rather than hurrying inside to meet the king.
Later, Castor brings her to the riverbank. He seems lost in thought, and his eyes are dark in the morning light.
“That envoy was for you and Polydeuces,” Clytemnestra says.
He nods. “We are going to Colchis. We have been called to join a crew of young Greek men.”
“Tantalus told me about Colchis,” she says. “A wicked king rules there.”
“Ae?tes, yes,” Castor replies.
“He is skilled in potions. He uses herbs that grow in the woods to work changes upon the world.”
“How do you know such things?”
“Tantalus says everyone knows about it in the East.”
“What do these herbs do?”
“They heal animals and people alike, bring them back to life. But they also cause pain.”
Castor doesn’t reply. He is watching a group of boys racing each other in the distance.
“When will you leave?” Clytemnestra asks, dipping her feet into the water.
“Soon. In ten days.”
“For how long?”
Castor sits next to her. “I don’t know yet. It will be one of the greatest expeditions ever. They will talk about it for years to come.”
“So you will stay away for a long time,” Clytemnestra says.