Electra had come to the megaron to give her some sliced apples while she was speaking to the warlords. A peace offering. Aileen must have spoken to her, or Chrysothemis. Clytemnestra sent the men away and ate the apples in silence with her daughter, the fire of the hearth sizzling and crackling like their thoughts.
Aegisthus cups his hand around her shoulder, moves her gently so that they are facing each other on the large bed. His eyes hold her, pulling her in. She isn’t scared of the frost anymore: it quietens her, healing her pain like ice against a wound.
“Did you love him?” he asks. “Your guard.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t afford to love anyone.”
But even as she says it, his hands warm on her body, she can feel something breaking down inside her, the walls she has built so carefully around herself cracking. Just a tiny fracture, nothing more, but spacious enough to let light through.
As if he felt it too, Aegisthus falls asleep. She watches his lips part, his eyelids fluttering. His slumber is always restless, filled with nightmares and murmurs. Every night, he twists under the sheets like a fish in a net, and every time, she cups her hands around his face and he stills. Then she can sleep too, somehow heartened by his presence despite the nightmares and the tossing. It is as if in sleep they are fighting shadows, but at least they are doing it together.
*
She is sweating, her cloak tossed aside, her tunic covered with sand and dust. Aegisthus walks around her, waiting for the right moment to attack again. In his eyes, the fear and alertness that haunt him every time he holds a sword. They are fighting in the practice yard in the late afternoon, the sky swollen and yellowish, like a blister.
Aegisthus’s blade whirls, flashing in the fading light. She catches the blow with her own sword, sliding away from him. They have been practicing for a long time, and on Aegisthus’s cheek, there is blood. When she cut him, rage had danced in his eyes, and for a moment, she was afraid. But the rage dissolved and he smiled—the smile he keeps for her every time she challenges him. She has never seen him smile like that with anyone else.
Now his foot lashes out and catches her leg. She stumbles but keeps her feet while Aegisthus brings his sword up, cutting her shoulder. She laughs and their blades kiss, then fly apart again.
“My queen,” someone behind her says.
She kicks Aegisthus’s hand, and he drops his sword. Breathless, she turns and stops. The man is young and swarthy, his black hair oily—one of her scouts. He is looking at Aegisthus, frowning.
“You bring news,” she says.
“Yes,” the scout says, his attention back to her. “From Sparta and from Troy.”
She stiffens, cleans her sword on her tunic, then puts pressure on the cut on her shoulder. Blood trickles over her fingers. Aegisthus takes the place next to her. She wishes he wouldn’t.
“What of Sparta?” she asks.
The man looks around, at the weapons spread on the yard and again at Aegisthus. She has ordered every scout to come to her in private rather than to meet her in the megaron, so he must be wondering why Aegisthus is staying now.
“Your brother Polydeuces proposes a marriage between your niece Hermione and your son Orestes. He says that Hermione has blossomed into a wise young woman and that she will have to marry soon.”
“I imagine he is proposing this because no one wants to marry the daughter of the woman who left for Troy,” Clytemnestra comments.
The scout frowns. “He didn’t say so.”
“If Orestes marries her, will he become king after Menelaus?”
“Your brother knew you would ask this, and he said that he will. Polydeuces has no interest in the throne.”
“Good. Then I will speak to my son, and I will give you an answer. Is that all from Sparta?”
“Yes.”
The scout comes closer, wringing his hands. She looks at Aegisthus, waiting for him to leave, but he does not move.
“I will meet you in the palace, Aegisthus,” she says.
She half expects him to complain, to look hurt, but his expression betrays nothing. He picks up his weapon and walks away, fallen leaves crunching under his feet. She will have to deal with him later, she knows, but now her body is tense, her heart beating fast. Her scouts haven’t brought news from Troy in a while.
When Aegisthus’s figure has disappeared into the citadel, the scout speaks in a low voice. “You told me to hurry to you first in case anything new came from Troy.”
“Is the war over?” she asks.
“Not yet. But it will be soon. The word is that Odysseus, son of Laertes, has devised a trick to get our soldiers into the city gates. The Greeks are building a giant wooden horse. What they will do with it, no one knows yet, but it must be part of Odysseus’s plan. My informants tell me that the people in the Greek camp expect the war to be won in a matter of weeks.”
A matter of weeks. How long has she been waiting for this? How many sleepless nights? How many grieving days?
“Who are your informants?” she asks.
“The bed slaves in the camp talk.”
“I see. And how certain are we that the war will end in the Greeks’ favor?”
“Odysseus is quite certain, according to my sources.”
Then we will win. Her shoulder is still bleeding and she ties a piece of tunic around it. The scout keeps talking.
“Some generals are already deciding on which Trojan women they will take once the war is won. Priam has many daughters, most of them of age.”
“And Helen?”
“Your sister is still inside the city, though Menelaus has sworn to kill her once Troy falls.”
She takes a deep breath. I am sure my brother will forgive her, Agamemnon had said before leaving. Your sister can be quite convincing. She clings to the words like a limpet to its rock. “How many generals survive?” she asks.
“The Prince Achilles died, my queen. Paris killed him with an arrow.”
She knew this already. Cadmus had told her in the megaron. She imagines Paris, handsome as a god, eager to please his father after bringing ruin on his people’s heads, riding on the Trojan plain looking for the best of the Greeks. A boy who was raised as a shepherd killing the greatest soldier of his generation.
“What about the others?”
“Among those closest to the king, Menelaus and Diomedes both live.”
“And Calchas?” she asks, keeping her voice as firm as she can.
“He is alive, though some say he is falling out of King Agamemnon’s favor.”
“Good.” She leans against a tree, trying to control her excited thoughts. “You bring good news,” she tells him. “You may rest in the palace tonight, but tell no one about this. Tomorrow you go back to your outpost. When the city falls, light a bonfire and order your men in the mountains to do the same so that the news might come here as soon as possible.”
For a moment, she is tempted to cut his throat, because she doesn’t trust anyone with such a secret. But a body to burn would be much more suspicious than a scout sleeping in the palace, so she lets him go.
*
Orestes is in the lower part of the citadel to have a new sword forged. Inside the blacksmith’s shop, the air is as hot as a furnace. When he sees his mother, Orestes smiles and walks to her, away from the apprentice smiths he was talking to. She takes him aside, in the darkest corner of the shop.
“Your uncle Polydeuces sent us a message today. He wants you to marry your cousin Hermione.”
Orestes gives her an amused look. “What do you think of his proposal?”
“Hermione is a good girl, strong and wise. She has endured the loss of her mother and has grown up under Polydeuces’s wing, which means she will know the difference between the things that matter and those that don’t. My brother has always been a very practical man.”
Orestes nods. Earlier today, she saw a servant girl coming out of his room, giggling. When the girl noticed her, she fell silent and hurried away.
“If I marry her, will I be king in Sparta?” he asks.
She smiles at the question. “Yes. I have already made sure of that.”