She was at the door now. It was fully closed, but in the darkness she noticed a gap in the solid wood, a small hole where a knot had fallen out, bright with the firelight that spilled through from beyond. She put her eye to it. There her mother sat, on the edge of their marriage bed, her cheeks pink with anger. Father sat beside her, looking weary and concerned at the same time, his hand resting lightly on her mother’s thigh. She was looking away from him. It seemed there had been a pause in their disagreement.
“It has to be this way, Leda,” said her father, his voice quiet and cautious.
“But it makes no sense,” her mother replied, shaking her head. “Why make Helen your heir? She has no real claim, you know she doesn’t. And in any case, Klytemnestra is older. It is her birthright.” She clasped his hands. “And she has shown more promise. She is clever and temperate and obedient. What has she done to make you spurn her?”
Klytemnestra smiled at her mother’s words, warmth spreading through her aching chest. It was just as she had hoped.
“She has done nothing.” Her father sighed deeply. “I learned things while I was away. There are . . . rumors, concerning Helen. Such things spread quickly—and widely, it seems.”
Her mother’s face froze and the flush left her cheeks. “What rumors?”
Klytemnestra pressed closer to the door.
“The boy Theseus, the one who was here a few years ago, the one . . .” Her mother nodded impatiently and he continued. “He has been saying things. Things that are not true. He’s been boasting about it to anyone who’ll listen, apparently.”
Theseus? The name was like a knife of guilt in Klytemnestra’s chest. This is all because of that? She should never have let Helen out of her sight.
Her mother, on the other hand, seemed to relax. “Well, if that’s all—”
“It’s not, Leda.” Her father took her mother’s hands in his. He was looking into her eyes and she . . . she looked scared, as if she knew what was coming. Her bottom lip twitched. “People know, Leda,” he said gently. “Or at least they’ve guessed. They’re calling her Helen the Bastard.”
Klytemnestra had to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. Of all the things you could call a person . . . She felt suddenly protective. Who were these people who could speak such lies about her sister?
Her mother drew a rattling breath and closed her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. Father was squeezing her hands tight. He looked like he might cry too. But as Klytemnestra watched their faces, mirrored in grief, she realized that they were not outraged. Their expressions were almost accepting, as if they had been waiting for this day to come.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he said. “I’m sorry we have to talk about this. I would have spared you it if I could.” He raised a hand to her mother’s face and delicately wiped a tear from it. “But do you see now? Helen will never get a good marriage. Perhaps she won’t marry at all. Not when people are doubting her virginity and her parentage both. Not unless we make her a more attractive prospect. If we make her heir to Sparta, they won’t care about rumors. They’ll fight to marry her.”
“But it shouldn’t come at a cost to Nestra,” her mother croaked. “She doesn’t deserve this. She deserves to be happy. My poor daughter—”
“And what about Helen? She’s your daughter too.”
“What about her?” her mother snapped. Klytemnestra was shocked to see her face twist with contempt. “I wish she’d never . . . I tried . . . I tried to . . . I took herbs.” Her mother’s eyes were full of pain as she turned her face away from her husband and gazed, unseeing, at the door. “Klytemnestra is my true daughter. Our daughter. Born of love.”
Klytemnestra began to realize the meaning of her mother’s words, and yet it was too much to take in, as if the words themselves were too large, too momentous to squeeze through that little gap in the wood.
Her father looked pained. Lines of sadness were drawn on his face, made deeper by the lamplight. He placed a hand tenderly on her mother’s cheek and turned her face back toward him. “You are not a cruel woman, Leda. Think what you are saying. What joy will Helen find in life if she does not marry? If she does not have children?” He lowered his eyes. “I know they hurt you.” Her mother gasped back a sob. “I know they did. But it wasn’t Helen; she didn’t hurt you. It’s not her fault.”
Her mother was sobbing freely now, body shaking, wrapped in the strong arms of her husband. Eventually she found some composure. When she spoke, though, her voice was barely audible. Klytemnestra had to strain to hear.
“I know. I know it’s not Helen’s fault. It’s my fault. I was careless. But I can’t bear to look at her, sometimes. She reminds me of . . . of them, and of what happened, of how I disgraced you. Of how I continue to bring disgrace upon you.” Her voice broke again and she shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I ruined everything that day. And now poor Nestra has been robbed of her birthright because of me.”
Klytemnestra knew she didn’t understand all that was being said, but her mother’s pain was clear. She wished she could run in and hug her. Tell her that it was all right, that she didn’t blame her.
“Please don’t, my love. Please don’t say those things.” He pressed his forehead to hers, hands cradling her dark head. “It’s not true. You know I don’t blame you.”
Her mother continued, her breathing ragged. “I had hoped that once Helen was married, once she was gone . . . But now I must lose the daughter I love and be haunted forever by the one who remains.”
Her father looked up, his head heavy. “I’m sorry. The last thing I wanted to do was to bring you further pain. But I must do what is best—for both of my daughters.”
Her mother lifted her eyes to meet his, but Klytemnestra could not read her expression. Eventually she said, “You are a good man, Tyndareos,” and let her head fall onto his chest. The fire that had been in her before seemed to have died, leaving a sudden, feeble acceptance behind it. A small, selfish corner of Klytemnestra’s heart winced as she saw her mother give in. Her only champion had given up the fight, and yet her mother looked so frail, so broken from her efforts, that she knew she could not blame her. The two of them sat in silence for a minute or so before she straightened up and said, “Tell me more about my daughter’s betrothed.”
Her father gave a quiet sigh of relief. “He is a worthy match for Nestra. A formidable man, a great leader of men. He has won a wide kingdom, and wealth with it, but that is just the beginning. I believe he will become a great lord of Greece. Greater than myself.” Klytemnestra was listening intently, keen to hear all she could about this man who had so impressed her father that he would give her away so easily. She saw her mother scoff, her dark eyes sharp with skepticism. “Truly, my love,” he continued, “I have seen it in him. He hungers for power, and has the means to get it. And that is why we must secure our link with his house.” Her mother looked as though she was going to interrupt, but Father seemed to anticipate what she was going to say. “He won’t take Helen—I have already suggested it. He needs a queen who’ll reinforce his legitimacy, not bring it into further question. And he needs heirs now. Helen is not ready. She has not yet started her bleeding, has she?” Her mother reluctantly shook her head. “He is past thirty, waiting until his kingdom was won to marry, but now he needs children to secure his house.”
“I cannot argue against you, it seems,” said her mother, her tone resigned. “All that you have said is fairly reasoned. I should have expected no less from you.” She gave him a small smile, from one corner of her mouth.
“All will be well, you shall see,” said her father, returning her mother’s half-smile with a full one. “Both your daughters shall be queens. The most praised and envied wives in all Greece. We shall send Klytemnestra to Mycenae with all the ceremony she deserves, and make Helen the most desired bride of her generation.”
“By attaching your kingdom to her,
” said her mother with a sigh.
“Not only that, my love, not only that. But it will certainly help. Men soon forget whispered words when they hear the call of a throne.” He grinned, trying to coax another smile from her mother’s lips. “We’ll turn everything to our advantage, you’ll see.”
There was a noise from somewhere on Klytemnestra’s side of the door. Not close by, but too close to ignore. People were beginning to leave the feast. She had to get back to her chamber. Her parents were still talking, but she couldn’t risk being discovered. She stepped carefully away from the door and then walked briskly back to her room. When she got there she quickly tucked herself up in her bed.
Her heart was racing, and not just from fear of getting caught. She had heard so much in the last few minutes, so much that was new and confusing. Helen the Bastard, her father had said. Klytemnestra still wasn’t sure she understood everything she had heard, and some of it was already slipping from her memory, but she knew what those words meant. Father was not Helen’s father. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she wondered if Helen knew. No. Of course she didn’t. She would have said something. They shared everything with each other. And surely her parents wouldn’t have told her, if it was supposed to be a secret. Helen never could keep her mouth shut. Should I tell her? thought Klytemnestra. If I don’t tell her before I leave, she may never know. But perhaps that was for the best, she thought as she turned onto her other side, trying to get comfortable. Helen loved Father. She was proud to be his daughter. She would be so upset if she knew the truth, and what would be gained?
Something else she had heard was troubling her more than Helen’s parentage. People wouldn’t marry Helen because of Theseus. It didn’t matter that he was lying. He had been alone with her. He could claim whatever he liked and people would believe him. The thought of it made her so angry, to think of him bragging about it, laughing as he ruined her sister’s future. She could hear it now, that carefree, careless laughter of boys who know the world is theirs to waste.
She threw the covers off herself, suddenly hot with anger, and yet beneath her rage at Theseus there was another feeling, darker and deeper and more difficult to confront. Guilt. Helen had only been young; she hadn’t known what she was doing. But it had been her job to protect her sister. To guard her virginity, her reputation. Helen had only been allowed such freedom because her parents trusted Klytemnestra to be her sister’s keeper. And she had let her down. Her sister wouldn’t get a good marriage, because of her.
As she lay on her bed she felt her anger at her father, at Helen for stealing her birthright, ebb away. Helen needed it more than she did. And Klytemnestra was paying a due price for her own failure. She could not take back what had happened, she could not punish Theseus for his lies, but she could help to repair the damage they had done. She would not argue with her father anymore. This was the way it must be.
* * *
The next day, Klytemnestra was back at work in the women’s room. She hadn’t gotten much sleep, having lain awake most of the night churning over what she had heard and imagining her new future. She was still preoccupied now, as she worked the loom.
She noticed a fault in the cloth a few lines back. With a sigh she set to work unraveling what she had done—not for the first time this morning. As she did so she felt the slow realization that something had changed. And then it struck her. The usually chatter-filled room had fallen silent. She turned on her stool to see that all the women, bar Helen, had downed their work and bowed their heads. And then she spotted the cause. There, in the doorway, stood her father. She didn’t think she had ever seen him in the women’s room before. He met her gaze.
“Klytemnestra,” he said. “Would you mind speaking with me?”
Would I mind? He was the king, and her father. If he wanted to speak with her she could hardly object. Surprised by his conciliatory tone, she left the loom and walked over to him. He led her a short way down the corridor and addressed her in a soft voice.
“I wanted to see that you were all right, after what we talked about last night. I’m sorry for upsetting you. It must have been quite a shock and I know you are angry with me, but I promise that I have made you a good match. King Agamemnon—”
“It’s all right, Father,” she interrupted. He blinked in surprise and she forced a smile. “I will do whatever you ask of me. I know you’re only trying to do what’s best.”
He paused, his brow creased in confusion. Then he bent down and wrapped his arms around her.
“You are such a good girl, Nestra,” he breathed into her hair. “Your mother and I care for you very much, and hope you will be happy in your marriage.” Then he let go of her and straightened up. “I’m glad that we could be reconciled,” he said, his tone formal again. And with that he turned and walked away from her.
Klytemnestra let out a slow, shaky sigh. That was it, then. She strode back to the women’s room and to her loom. Helen gave her a questioning look as she passed, but Klytemnestra pretended not to see.
CHAPTER 4
KLYTEMNESTRA
It had been three months since Klytemnestra had learned of her betrothal. She had cherished each day since, trying to take in every sight, sound, and smell of the palace that had been the only home she’d ever known, aware that she would soon have to leave it. She sat in the women’s room, appreciating the clattering, chattering hum. There would be a women’s room at her new palace, no doubt, but it would not be the same. It would have none of the memories this room held. And none of the people. Not Thekla, with her disapproving tuts and the little lines that spread from her eyes when she smiled. Not Agatha, with her shy eyes and gentle heart. And not Helen. She would miss her sister most of all. She could hear her high voice singing on the other side of the room. Right now it sounded like the sweetest thing she had ever heard, and the thought of never hearing it again made her throat tight.
Today was the day she would meet her betrothed. He would arrive in Sparta this evening for the wedding feast, and then tomorrow he would lead her home as his bride. Her sister knew all this, of course, but Klytemnestra didn’t think Helen really understood. She seemed to think this wasn’t the end, that her sister would come back to visit. But Klytemnestra knew there was little likelihood of that. Married noblewomen did not travel. She would remain in Mycenae for the rest of her life as steward of her husband’s household. And perhaps it was easier that way. A clean break and a new life.
As she sat musing there was a polite cough behind her. She turned to see Thekla standing there.
“Mistress Klytemnestra. It’s time to prepare you to meet your betrothed.” The nurse gave a reassuring smile. “Come with me.”
Klytemnestra was prepared in her mother’s chamber by the queen’s own handmaids. Her mother was there too, directing them as they worked. Klytemnestra thought she caught her mother’s eyes shining once or twice, but otherwise she hid her sadness well. She seemed excited as she ordered the slaves about the chamber—calling for ocher, myrrh, oil, amber—and her cheeks were plump with pride. After all, her daughter was becoming a woman.
By the time they had finished, Klytemnestra glistened. Her dark hair had been oiled and curled and the red cloth of her dress had been treated with oil too, giving it a luster as it caught the lamplight. The dress was pinned tighter to her body than usual and the material was thin, making her self-conscious. Necklaces of polished carnelian ringed her throat and thick bangles of gold weighed down her wrists. White makeup had been applied to her face, neck, and arms, and her eyes were edged with black kohl.
One of her mother’s handmaids passed her a mirror and she held the polished surface up in front of her face. She looked beautiful. Her mother was looking at her with what seemed to be a genuine smile on her face. Klytemnestra smiled back.
“There is one final thing to do, my daughter, before you are ready,” her mother said. She gestured to a handmaid, who came forward cra
dling a piece of delicate cloth in her hands. As her mother lifted it up, Klytemnestra saw that it was very fine, dyed with saffron and delicately embroidered, with gold threads crisscrossing its surface like a thousand shining stars.
“It is a veil. Made by my own hand,” her mother said, looking at it with pride. “You are a bride now, and soon to be a wife and queen. You will need this. First for the wedding and then afterward, to preserve your modesty. And to keep your skin as fair as your mother’s,” she added with a smile. She stepped toward Klytemnestra and laid the veil over her head. Then, reaching into a small ivory chest, she produced a beautifully wrought golden circlet and laid it on top of the veil, fixing it in place. Her mother stepped back, beaming with pride. Even through the haze of the translucent veil, Klytemnestra thought she could see tears in her mother’s eyes.
“There,” her mother said. “You are a true bride now. A true woman.”
As if on cue the door to the chamber opened and a female servant entered. She glanced at Klytemnestra and addressed the queen.
“Lord Agamemnon arrived not long ago, my lady. He has been bathed and is now waiting with Lord Tyndareos in the Hearth Hall. He asks that the Princess Klytemnestra be brought to him so he may see her before the feast.”
Her mother nodded and the servant retreated, closing the door behind her. Klytemnestra’s insides started to squirm. She hadn’t expected him to arrive for another hour or so. She thought there would be time for her and her mother to sit and talk awhile.
“This is it then, my daughter,” said her mother, taking Klytemnestra’s hands in hers. She seemed to be resisting the urge to embrace her, not wanting to rub the makeup from her arms or upset her carefully arranged hair and veil. “I am so proud of you.” She squeezed her hands and smiled, though there was a twitch at the corners of her mouth, as if something in her was resisting. “You must remember to stand straight. And don’t speak unless he asks you something. We will show him that the women of Sparta are the best in Greece.”
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