She knows he speaks the truth. A son’s highest duty is to honor and avenge the father, no matter how cruel the father. Aegisthus is living proof of that.
A wanderer, born to kill his father’s enemies, bound to bring ruin to his house—the words the elders had used all those years ago as they sent spies across the mainland to look for Aegisthus. “Aegisthus’s father was a monster,” Clytemnestra had said, but the elders had shaken their heads.
“You are a woman. You cannot understand loyalty to the father.”
They were wrong, as always. She understands Justice, the ancient spirit that lives inside each of them, ready to burst forth for every crime. It is a web, each thread stained with the blood of mothers and fathers, daughters and sons. It grows and grows, the Furies always weaving more traps.
Yet would Orestes really side with a father who had murdered his sister like an animal bred for slaughter? Would he gather an army against his own mother? She has taught him everything he knows. She has shown him the other boys’ weaknesses and told him that mercy never helps one win. She was there when he wielded his first sword, when he rode his first horse. She wanted him to grow into a strong and decent man, fierce but not savage. Maybe she has gone too far. Maybe she should have taught him to be loyal, first and foremost. Do good men make good warlords? Orestes asked her with a smirk.
Unease floods her, a warning. She looks up. Aegisthus is staring at her, like a wolf stalking a sheep.
“Orestes is promised to Hermione,” Clytemnestra says. “He will go to Sparta before the Atreidai come back from the war. That way, he will start to build his web of alliances. He will command respect before the king of Sparta is at home.” The expression on Aegisthus’s face warms her, like the first spring morning after a long winter. “Then, after I have dealt with his father, he will come back to Mycenae. He will show me his loyalty.”
*
She sends her son away in the last days of spring.
At dawn, they go to the Lion Gate together. The citadel is still waking up, some women walking half asleep to the stream, carrying dirty tunics. Orestes ties his dagger to his belt, his profile sweet in the orange light.
“Be kind to your cousin,” she says. “Treat her as your equal, not as your inferior.”
“I will,” he says, giving her one of his handsome smiles.
“Don’t take other girls to your bed,” she adds, and he breaks into a laugh. “That is how your uncle lost Helen in the first place.”
He places his hands on her arms. “You worry too much. Besides, I know what Uncle Polydeuces will do to me if I wrong his beloved niece.”
She looks at his dazzling face, at every faint line and jagged angle. “Be careful. Look around, find those loyal to you. Your uncle will help you, but never underestimate your counselors. Sparta has changed. Most families are faithful to Menelaus now. They will look upon you as an intruder.”
He gazes at her seriously, and in his eyes, she sees his father, the same intentness when he listened to something he knew was important.
“Everyone has friends and foes, but kings and queens even more so,” she adds. “Remember it when the time comes.”
The horses are ready, and his men call for him. She wants to cling to him, never let him go. But she has made a choice, and she can’t turn back.
He kisses her forehead. “I will remember,” he says. She thinks he will turn now and leave her, but he cups his hand around her face. “And you be wary of Aegisthus, Mother. He’s not your foe, but he’s not your friend either.”
*
She goes straight to the walls to watch Orestes ride into the sunrise. Aegisthus is already there, his eyes on her son. She feels sudden uncertainty at the sight of him, as if the ground were collapsing under her feet. A tiny sun rises with a splash of color, and the last pale, resilient stars disappear. Aegisthus turns to watch her, unblinking.
“Orestes believes I shouldn’t trust you,” she says. “The elders thought I shouldn’t trust you. Leon warned me not to trust you. Should I worry that I was wrong about your loyalty?”
Below them, Orestes is a small point moving quickly across the land. Soon he will ride beyond the hills and disappear.
“Your faithful dog Leon is gone,” Aegisthus says. “Orestes is gone. The elders are gone. You yourself saw to that.” He holds her gaze. “There’s only me and you now.”
It is strange how frightening he can be. She knows he loves her, yet sometimes he slides back into his hole of fear and distrust, a hole he has dug for himself during all those years of loneliness.
He kneels and takes her hand. His palm is cold and dry against hers. “I will always be loyal to you, my queen.”
33
The Lion Comes Home
THE WATER IN the bath is cool and pleasant against her skin. The lights are dim inside, and outside, the hills stretch like ocean waves. She closes her eyes and lets her body sink deeper into the bath. Is this how death feels? she wonders. Is her beautiful Iphigenia floating somewhere peacefully, her golden hair dancing around her? She emerges, and her hand finds the cold blade of her dagger lying on the floor next to her. The sharpness soothes her, and she tries to distract herself from painful thoughts. There was a fight in the citadel today, and she will have to speak to the warlords about it. Two men were killed. The elders mentioned it was about some deals the merchants have made, some gold they refused to give. She is thinking she should summon the merchants directly to the megaron and teach them obedience once and for all . . .
That is when she sees the fire. Something is burning in the distance, on the mountain in front of the citadel, the flames rising in the sky like a flock of scarlet ibises. She climbs out of the bath and runs to the high window, water dripping from her body. There is another fire behind the mountain, flickering on the hills toward Athens and Delphi. And then another, the light so small in the distance it looks like the white of an eye open in the darkness.
Troy has fallen.
She stands by the window, frozen, watching the chain of beacons send burning sparks into the starless night. The fire grows larger, hungrier, and soon her eyes are alive with brightness. The sight makes her ravenous. Violence gorges on more violence—it is insatiable, always craving more blood. She closes her eyes, lets the pain flood her mind.
Iphigenia’s blood on her knees as she was dragged toward the altar stone. Leon’s battered face, the purple eye and the damaged throat. The redness on Clytemnestra’s hands, the broken nails and finger joints torn as she tried to anchor herself to the sandy ground—anything to be close to her daughter. The memories make her choke, like the sickly smell of putrefying bodies. But there are more.
Her mother holding Clytemnestra’s dead baby in her arms, her face twisted in desperation. Tantalus’s empty eyes staring back at her. She couldn’t touch him. Someone was holding on to her, and no matter how much she clawed and screamed, they wouldn’t let her go. And then Agamemnon, staring at her across the corridor. He wasn’t speaking, but she knew what he thought: You are mine now. But he was wrong. She is nobody’s.
She walks slowly back to the bath and picks up her mother’s jeweled dagger. The first time she touched the blade, she cut herself—but her skin has long been thicker. More blood will be spilled soon, but it won’t be mine.
She throws the dagger into the wooden door of the bathhouse, where it sticks with the smallest sound. It is like the sound of a dead bird falling on the ground.
*
Her daughters are sleeping together in Chrysothemis’s room, their chests moving up and down like the wings of a butterfly. Clytemnestra sits at the edge of the large bed and strokes Chrysothemis’s cheek. Electra opens her eyes, suddenly alert.
“What is it, Mother?” she asks. Her sister stirs in her sleep. Clytemnestra moves a strand of hair away from her face.