Klytemnestra forced her shimmering head to nod. Yes, she would be the best bride she could be. Beautiful and obedient. The best wife, the best mother, the best woman. That was the path before her now—it all began here. So much lay beyond her control, but this, this was her power. She would make everyone proud.
Her mother let go of her hands and led her from the chamber to the Hearth Hall entrance. With one last encouraging smile her mother nodded to the guard, who opened the heavy wooden door, and side by side they strode into the hall.
As Klytemnestra crossed the threshold her eyes flicked straight to her father’s throne—and to the man seated beside him. The room was otherwise empty so the man could be none other than Agamemnon.
He was broad, and powerful-looking. Muscular, but not lean. He rose from his chair as she entered and she saw that he was tall, rising several inches above her father as they stood together. He had dark hair, tied up behind his head, and his beard was black. Her father had said he was over thirty, but Klytemnestra thought he didn’t look much younger than Father himself. Even through the mesh of the shimmering veil she could see that his face was hard and weathered, with cuts and creases running across it. He was not unhandsome, though. He had a strong nose and sharp eyes. His expression remained neutral as she approached.
“So this is my bride,” he said, his deep voice booming through the empty hall. “Come closer, let me look at you.”
She took a few more steps toward him, glancing nervously at her father. She wasn’t sure if he could see her expression through the veil, but he smiled and it calmed her. She set her eyes straight ahead, doing her best to look confident and modest at the same time.
Agamemnon stood in front of her for a moment, then began a slow circuit. She could feel his eyes as he moved around her and wished her dress were not so tight, nor so thin. She was glad of the veil now. She thought that even through the white makeup her cheeks must be turning red. And as he came around to examine her flanks, the line of her back, she was glad he could not see her grit her teeth—or perhaps he would like to check them, too? Eventually, he reappeared in front of her.
“Very good. Sparta really is the land of beautiful women,” he said, and barked a laugh. “And she is well matured. That is good.” He glanced over at her father, who nodded solemnly.
“Did you weave this cloth yourself?” he asked, looking at her dress and veil. With a start she realized he was talking to her.
“Er . . . no, my lord,” she replied, a little embarrassed. “But I can weave. I’ve woven many—”
“Do you dance?” he asked next, cutting her off.
“Yes, my lord. I dance well, so I’m told.”
“Good,” he boomed, clapping his huge hands together. “You will dance tonight at the feast. I look forward to it.”
“Yes, my lord, if you wish it,” she said, not sure whether he expected an answer.
“I am glad my daughter pleases you,” came her father’s voice. “May your marriage bring joy to you both, and lasting union to Sparta and Mycenae.”
“Indeed,” said Agamemnon. “Mycenae will forever be a faithful ally to Sparta, as she has been our ally in reclaiming the throne of my father. And I am glad to accept your daughter as my wife, so that our two great houses may be joined. You will see that I have brought ample bridal gifts, and will bestow many more upon my wife when we return to Mycenae.”
My wife. The words sounded strange, and yet there was a gravity to them that Klytemnestra liked.
“You are most generous, Lord Agamemnon,” said her father, inclining his head graciously. “If you are satisfied, shall we begin the wedding feast?”
“By all means!” he replied. “My stomach hungers for meat after our journey.”
And with that the guests were summoned, the meat and wine prepared, and the celebrations begun.
Klytemnestra woke up the next morning with Helen’s hair in her face. Her sister had wanted to share her bed so they could be close on their last night. She thought Helen was perhaps starting to realize that they might never see each other again, once she left with Agamemnon. As they lay there together, Helen’s gentle breaths oddly loud in the silence, Klytemnestra took a moment to cherish the warm comfort of it. She would have quite a different bedmate in a few days’ time, once the wedding procession was over and they had arrived in Mycenae as husband and wife. But she didn’t want to have to think about that yet. She must take one step at a time, or she feared she would not be able to go forward at all.
She had been glad to leave the feast last night. It had felt like everyone was looking at her and, though it had made her feel special and beautiful at first, it had become unnerving. Even with her face hidden beneath the golden veil, she had felt exposed. The worst part was when her father had called her to dance right in the middle of the hall. She had not been alone—Helen and some other noblegirls had joined the performance—but everyone seemed to be watching her. Agamemnon himself had been only a few feet away, and his eyes had never left her body. She had felt the thin, red cloth of her dress cling to her hips, her waist, her breasts as she moved to the music of the lyre, the rhythm of the drum, and had wanted nothing more than to shrink into the crowd, away from the hungry eyes of the man who would be her husband.
There was a knock at the chamber door and a slave woman entered. Klytemnestra sat up, causing Helen to stir but not to wake.
“Lord Agamemnon wishes to set off as soon as possible, my lady,” said the slave. “I am to wash and dress you.”
Klytemnestra nodded, relieved to see that the dress the slave was holding was thickly woven. At least she would not feel as self-conscious on her journey as she had last night. She silently thanked the gods that winter was approaching.
Once she was dressed, veiled, and modestly adorned with a necklace of amethysts, she was led to the front of the palace. But before she walked through its huge doors her mother appeared, with Helen in tow.
“Nestra!” cried Helen, running to embrace her. “I was worried you’d already gone!”
“I would never leave without saying good-bye,” said Klytemnestra, hugging her sister tightly.
“I wish you didn’t have to go at all,” Helen complained, looking as if she might cry.
“So do I,” she breathed, kissing the top of her sister’s shining head. “So do I, Helen, but I must.” She pulled away and gave a brave smile so that Helen would not get upset.
“I don’t see why, though. You said we could both stay here. You said we’d raise our children together and—”
“I know . . . I know I said that. But the Fates have spun a different future for us. We cannot argue against them. It will all be for the best, you will see,” she said, squeezing Helen’s soft hands. The words were as much for herself as for her sister.
Helen was silent for a moment, looking into Klytemnestra’s eyes.
“I’ll miss you,” she said quietly.
“I’ll miss you too,” Klytemnestra replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. They embraced again.
Then once Helen had let go, her light eyes sparkling with tears, the queen stepped forward. Cupping Klytemnestra’s cheeks in her hands and looking straight into her eyes, she said, “You are my proudest achievement, and I will always love you.” Then she folded her into her arms. It was a desperate, lingering embrace, and Klytemnestra wished it could last forever. Here, pressed against her mother’s breast, cradled in her arms, she felt safe. When her mother finally let go she wiped her cheek, adjusted Klytemnestra’s circlet, and stepped back. “Now, go to your husband,” she said.
And with that the great doors were opened, and sunlight poured into the atrium. With legs shaking, Klytemnestra stepped out toward her future.
CHAPTER 5
KLYTEMNESTRA
It took a full three days of traveling to reach Mycenae. The winding route through the mountains was slow, and the
y were hampered by the wagons. Two of them were filled with gifts from her father; one held her dowry of fine cloth and jewelry, and the other carried the guest-gifts bestowed upon Agamemnon: silver cups and bronze cauldrons, sharp spears and sturdy shields. The third wagon was occupied by Klytemnestra herself. It was decked with soft cloths, colored with luxurious purple, but her backside still ached at the end of each day.
She was alone in the wagon, swaying with every bump of the rocky track as her husband rode out ahead. Her brothers had traveled with the procession at first, holding the bridal torches and riding either side of her. At least then she had had someone to talk to, and the company of those she knew. It had made her feel more at ease. But Kastor and Pollux had left them at the edge of Lakonia. They had turned around and ridden back home, giving the sacred torches over into the hands of Agamemnon’s heralds, men she did not know. The heralds had introduced themselves, but she had not been listening. All her attention had been on the two figures shrinking into the distance, until they became two dots, and then were gone altogether. In her heart she knew it was the last she would ever see of her family.
She hadn’t spoken since Kastor and Pollux had left. No one spoke to her, and it would be improper for her to start a conversation with a man. She had thought the journey might be an opportunity for her to get to know her husband a little, but he had barely even looked at her since leaving Sparta. He seemed content to talk and laugh with his men. What Klytemnestra really wanted was some female company. Before leaving she had shyly asked her husband and her father whether she might take a female slave with her, to tend her needs once they reached Mycenae. She had just wanted a familiar face, any face. But Agamemnon had dismissed the idea, saying he had plenty of slaves at his palace. And so here she was, a girl of barely fifteen, adrift in a sea of men. It would be different once they reached Mycenae, she told herself. There would be women, and girls her own age. People to talk to and laugh with. She would be happy there. She was determined to be happy.
They reached Mycenae the evening of the third day. The first thing Klytemnestra saw were the huge walls of the citadel, which were taller and thicker than any she had seen before. As the wagons drew closer they seemed to grow taller still, rising from the hillside like cliffs of white stone, huge boulders stacked upon one another, so high she feared they would come crashing down on top of them. Her home in Sparta barely had a boundary fence. The bridal torches were still burning as the procession approached, crawling up the slope to the acropolis. They reached the outside of the citadel and entered into a short corridor of stone, the huge walls towering above them on either side. Over the heads of the men and horses, Klytemnestra could see the top of a gateway. The wooden doors were closed, but above the thick stone lintel she could see two fierce lionesses, brought to life from out of the cold stone. Their faces glared out over the procession, illuminated by the flickering torchlight.
Staring up at those stone faces, the frightening gatekeepers of her new home, Klytemnestra nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice suddenly called out beside her.
“Lord Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, has arrived with his bride,” announced the herald on her right.
For a moment there was silence. Then she heard sounds of movement from the other side of the gate. Booted footsteps, the thud of wood, the clank of metal. Soon the heavy gates were opened, and her wagon jolted to a start as the procession filed through under the watchful gaze of the lionesses.
Klytemnestra tried to take in all she could as they passed through the citadel, but it was difficult in the darkness and with the veil obscuring her vision. She spotted the shapes of men, stopped in the streets or hovering in their doorways, trying to catch a glimpse of their king’s new bride. She was glad of the veil now, as she had been on many occasions during her journey. She did not want people to see how scared she was. A queen was not supposed to be afraid.
It did not take long to reach the palace. Even in the limited light she knew that was what it was—its silhouette loomed larger by far than any other building they had passed. Klytemnestra’s wagon rolled to a halt beside a great staircase of stone and as she followed it with her eyes, squinting up at the huge door that stood at its end, she began to shiver. She did not notice her husband standing beside her until he thrust out an expectant arm. She took it gratefully, but even so her legs were not long enough to avoid an inelegant hop to the ground, and she thanked the gods that she managed to keep from falling. Her knees felt as if they could barely hold her weight as her husband led her toward her new home, his gloved hand wrapped around her wrist as she trailed behind him.
They entered through the huge doors to be greeted by a number of slaves and stewards, awaiting the orders of their returned master. Klytemnestra could hear music and smell roasting meat. A female slave bowed before Agamemnon.
“Would you like the girl prepared for the bedding, my lord?” she asked. “We’ve readied a bath and perfumes and—”
“That will not be necessary,” replied Agamemnon. The woman nodded and shuffled backward again.
“Will you be partaking of the feast beforehand, my lord?” asked another slave. “It is already under way. The nobles are in the hall, drinking to the health of you and your bride. They are eager to see their queen.”
“No. I will join them later, once the marriage is complete. They may see the Spartan flower once she has been plucked.”
Klytemnestra swallowed hard. It would happen soon, then. Perhaps that was for the best. Her nerves were making her feel sick; perhaps she would feel calmer once it was done.
Agamemnon dismissed the slaves and his attendants and carried on through the palace, still leading Klytemnestra behind him. He didn’t speak as they marched down corridor after corridor. The palace felt like a labyrinth, far larger than her home in Sparta, but perhaps that was just because it was all unfamiliar, every corridor, every doorway leading to some unknown place. She was beginning to think they were going around in circles when Agamemnon finally stopped outside a large wooden door, ornately carved with vines and stags, and pushed it open. He entered and waved a hand for her to follow.
The room was spacious, with a high ceiling. The lamps had already been lit, but their light was neither warm nor inviting. Somehow it gave the room an eerie glow, like the light cast from a pyre into the night sky. Klytemnestra shivered despite the warmth of her traveling clothes. In the middle of the room stood a huge bed, with thick posts at its corners. It was made up with fine covers, colored with deep purple. Her marriage bed.
Agamemnon had already moved to the bed. He was sitting on its edge, unlacing his boots, while Klytemnestra still hovered near the doorway.
“Close the door, girl,” Agamemnon grunted, pulling at the leather strings with impatient fingers. She obliged, struggling a little with the weight of it. Then she turned back to face him, awaiting her next instruction.
“Come over here.” He beckoned. “I’m not going to eat you,” he added, barking a laugh. He was not smiling, though.
She stepped toward him, trying to look graceful, but she knew she just looked afraid. She was still wearing the veil and could see the golden cloth quivering as her body trembled involuntarily.
“That’s better,” he said, as she stopped in front of him. “Now, let me help you out of those sandals.”
Still sitting on the bed, he leaned down and carefully slipped her small feet out of their shoes. As he slipped the second sandal off, however, his hands lingered on her foot. Then they moved up to her ankle. He slid his hands slowly up her legs, underneath the floor-length skirt of her dress. Past the knee. Klytemnestra’s heart was racing, but she tried to keep still. She mustn’t recoil. But it got harder and harder as his hands got higher.
Then he stopped, halfway up her thighs, and removed his hands from under her skirt. He stood up, so that he was right in front of her, mere inches between them. He smelled of sweat and dust and horses. She tilted
her head up to look at him, and then in one quick sweep he lifted her veil, and they were looking straight into each other’s eyes. She tried to keep her gaze strong and steady. Fearless, but not defiant. He smiled.
“As beautiful as your mother,” he said. And then without warning he kissed her, hard, right on the lips. His beard was thick and wiry against her face.
“Did you like that?” he asked. Klytemnestra was surprised by the question. But she had liked it, she realized, in a way. She had never kissed a man before, not even a boy. Now she felt grown-up, and beautiful. She gave a shy nod, not sure of her ability to speak. It felt as if there were a stone in her throat.
“Good,” he said, and kissed her again, more softly this time. “And before, when I touched you. Did you like that?”
Klytemnestra was less sure of this answer. She hesitated, afraid to give the wrong one.
“Your father tells me you’re a clever girl,” he continued, not waiting for her to reply. “You must know, then, that marriage is for the creation of children, yes?”
She nodded.
“And do you know how children come to be?” he asked.
She nodded again. She did know, or at least she thought she did.
“Then you know what we must do now,” he said, his voice the softest she had heard it since they had met.
She tried to nod again, but it came out as more of a twitch of her head. This was it, then. It was time for her to become a woman.
CHAPTER 6
HELEN
TWO YEARS LATER
Life for Helen had been very lonely since Klytemnestra left Sparta. She had not only lost her sister but her best friend. It had felt like a part of herself had been carried away in that wagon. For months after Nestra had left, Helen had felt lost, with no one to talk to but Thekla and no one to spend time with but herself. At night, her room was too quiet without her sister’s gentle breathing. That was when she missed her the most, when she was lying alone in the darkness. How she longed to call her sister’s name and hear her reply, and have one of those conversations they used to have, when it was just the two of them, there in the dark. They would talk about important things, sending their hearts out to each other under cover of night, or about nothing much at all, giggling quietly into their pillows until one of them fell asleep.
Daughters of Sparta Page 5