“My father always said that a ruler has to effect the punishment himself, or his people won’t respect him.”
“Your father was a wise man, I am sure,” he says. “He would have listened to his elders, not killed them.”
She scoffs. “You didn’t know Tyndareus. He never listened to the elders. I have listened to you, to your insults and treachery, for nine years. I am tired of listening now.”
*
She has them dragged to the Lion Gate under the cold sun. People are gathered in the streets, watching and whispering, mothers’ hands on their children’s shoulders, men’s eyes on Polydamas and Lycomedes, like a herd looking at its weakest members. She sees an old woman with a chicken under her arm, two boys pushing through the crowd to get a better view. Dogs bark, men yell, women sigh.
Outside the Lion Gate, her guards make space, pushing the two prisoners to the middle of the path. People are also coming from the villages at the foot of the mountain, baskets and rags in hand, their heads cocked with curiosity.
Clytemnestra stands in front of Polydamas and Lycomedes, Leon on her right, Orestes on her left. Dust from the alleys has clung to Lycomedes’s tunic and he brushes it away. She thinks of Iphigenia, who couldn’t brush sand from her dress before she was murdered. She clears her throat and turns to the people around her.
“These men stand accused of treason and conspiracy.” The crowd is quiet, and a hundred eyes watch her, as big as eggs.
“They walked around the citadel to spread the word that their queen wasn’t the rightful ruler of this city. They called me a plague upon Mycenae and conspired to make my son king while my husband fights in Troy.”
Lycomedes is mumbling, his pale forehead sweating despite the cold. The wind cuts across their cheeks like ice. Polydamas stares at her, his tunic rich and clean. His wife and daughters must be somewhere in the crowd. Still, no one pleads for him.
“I believe mercy can be shown to those who repent, but these men had many chances to do so and never took them. Their disrespect shan’t go unpunished.”
Polydamas’s face is like stone. She can hear the silence around her and Orestes’s breathing next to her as if it were her own. She is glad Electra and Chrysothemis aren’t here. Her hand goes to her mother’s jeweled dagger as she turns to the elders.
“Your treacherous words have caused your own death.”
Lycomedes’s knees tremble and he bends forward, praying to the gods. See how the gods listen. See how they care about us.
Polydamas looks at him, then back at her coldly. He spits on the dusty ground, a small wet smack at her feet. His voice as loud as thunder, he says, “You are no queen of mine.”
Her dagger flies, and with one single movement, she cuts their soft throats.
31
Landslide
EVERY CHOICE ONE makes has consequences, like a rock that falls from the top of the mountain.
Perhaps as it rolls down, it will take only a few trees in its path.
Maybe it will cause other stones to fall and turn into a landslide.
Right now, standing by her chair in the high-roofed dining hall, Clytemnestra watches the stone she has thrown. Leon is pacing the room, madness and disbelief spreading in his eyes. He didn’t move as Polydamas and Lycomedes choked and wriggled on the dusty path, but she could see the fire on his face, consuming him from the inside. “You would kill your advisers so,” he says.
“They were not loyal advisers. They were traitors.” Their blood is still on her hands, and she tries to wipe it away with a cloth.
“Then you would do the same to me if I opposed you?”
“You haven’t opposed me so far.”
His face twists. He grabs a ewer, and for a moment, she thinks he will fling it aside. But he puts it down, controlling himself, his hand shaking.
“You did this for Aegisthus? You plotted with a traitor?”
“I plotted nothing with him.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me of your decision? I am your guard and protector!”
“I didn’t know if I could trust you anymore,” she says simply. “You showed me no respect when you came to my room and insulted my relationship with Aegisthus.”
“Your relationship with Aegisthus,” he repeats bitterly.
She wishes she could sit and eat something. But Leon walks closer to her, his face looking as ugly as she has ever seen it. He has always been incapable of hiding his feelings: everything is written upon him and easily read.
“Aegisthus wasn’t there when your daughter was murdered. He wasn’t there to bring you back to Mycenae from the camp. He wasn’t there when the soldiers in Aulis wanted to beat you.” He is breathless, spitting each word. “I was there. I was beaten again and again to prevent them from touching you. I was there on the road back when you wanted to take your life and again in the palace when you wouldn’t rule. Did you use me for pleasure? Am I nothing more than a tool thrown aside now that you have another?”
She feels as if she has been plunged into the ocean, her body weighted with stones. “You didn’t protect my daughter!” she shouts.
He looks back at her, his eyes defiant. “You didn’t protect her either. Her death weighs on you as much as on me.”
How dare he? Her rage is so strong she can’t move. She tightens her grip on her dagger.
“Go on,” he says. “Are you going to kill me too? Because I wasn’t loyal? I almost gave my life for you!”
Almost.
“It wasn’t enough.” The words come out before she can stop them. She sees the hurt on Leon’s face. He straightens up, his fists balled.
“Then I will find some other queen to serve,” he says. He speaks as if his throat is broken. He sounds as he did after the men in Aulis strangled him. “One for whom I am enough.”
He starts toward the door. She grabs her dagger and throws it. It hits the wooden handle, and splinters fly. He flinches, turns back. In his eyes, there is shock, as if she is betraying him.
“You do not walk away from your queen,” she says. Their eyes lock, and she wants to shout, to hurt him, to do something to stop this.
“I know you for what you are,” he says. “Not this tyrant who’d kill anyone who walks away from her.” He swallows and his voice thickens. “As cold and ruthless as you have become, I know you won’t kill me.”
He turns and leaves then. She should follow, run after him. But her feet are heavy, rooted to the ground. She hears his boots on the stone floor until the sound fades into silence.
*
In the megaron, she sits on her husband’s throne. Her throne. The hall is empty, light thinning on the floor. There is the faint smell of the frescoes, the dying embers of the hearth. The red columns look like flames, lapping at the painted ceiling. The dogs come inside, nestling at her feet, looking up at her as if asking, Where is he?
“He will come back,” she says to the dogs, to herself, to the empty hall. He always does.
And if he doesn’t?
Once they were in the armory together, tidying the spears and arrows. Outside, the yard was ringing with the clatter of wooden swords and the boys’ laughter. It was peaceful, more so than the megaron, where she had to bear the elders’ distrust, or the bedroom, where she spent her nights under a slab of grief. As if hearing her thoughts, Leon had smiled at her and pressed his body against hers. She’d kept still in his arms until it was time to go back to the palace, wearing her mask of indifference once more.
He knows I can’t love him. He knows how I am, he has always known, and yet he left me. Let him live with his choice.
She feels flat and calm. No grief, no anger, just emptiness. The light dies, the room turns to gray, and yet no one comes. She curls up on the throne and falls into a dreamless sleep.
*