And then it had stopped. He had only taken her once in the last month, and even then there had been none of the usual tenderness, the playfulness, the teasing, the passion. It had been almost dutiful.
Klytemnestra suspected she knew the cause of her husband’s disinterest; he was getting his pleasure elsewhere. A concubine. Eudora said she had seen a new girl around the palace. Young and pretty, and a little dazed-looking. She was not a servant; it was Klytemnestra’s business to know the comings and goings of slaves. She was the mistress of the household, after all, even if she did not spend much time outside her chamber.
No, this girl was Agamemnon’s new plaything, she was sure of it. Why else would her husband suddenly turn from her? She was not yet twenty, still in her prime. She didn’t blame the girl; likely she had little say in the matter. Her husband was King of Mycenae—what girl could refuse him? But that didn’t stop her from feeling bitter about it. She knew it was the way of men to take other lovers. She had braced herself for it ever since that lonely journey over the mountains, had told herself that if she could harden her heart it would not matter, that she would still be queen and her children still his heirs. But it had proved more difficult than she had imagined. No amount of bracing could stop that blow, or the hurt it left.
As her hands moved across the loom they became angrier with every shunt of the shuttle. Hadn’t her father always been faithful to her mother? As far as she knew, he had. Was it so much to ask for her husband to do the same? Or at least to wait until she was old and used up before casting her aside? A bitter smile twisted her tight lips as she imagined the situation reversed, imagined herself leading some handsome young man to her chamber for all the palace to see. Agamemnon would flay her in the street.
She realized she had stopped her weaving, fingers shaking as she held the shuttle. Was it rage or fear that made her tremble? Her marriage was still in its infancy and yet she felt as if it were already crumbling. If she could not keep Agamemnon in her bed, their intimacy would die; she would lose what little influence she had and be subjected to a life of loneliness, impotence, and irrelevance. The thought of that life stretching out before her made her cold with dread.
But it was not here yet. She had to at least try to bring her husband back to her, while he still cared about her enough to listen. She should go to him now, she resolved, while that trembling energy still gave her courage.
Leaving the girls with Eudora, Klytemnestra left her chamber and headed for the Hearth Hall, where she guessed Agamemnon would be at this hour. She hoped her husband wouldn’t disapprove of her walking unattended—she was only moving within the palace. On the way she wondered whether she ought to have changed, to have put on something more alluring, if she was hoping to win him back. No, she thought. Shallow tricks were not necessary. Her husband was not an animal; he would listen to her words. Reason and duty and, she hoped, his affection for her would win him over, not flesh and finery.
She reached the vestibule of the Hearth Hall with her heart racing. Despite all that had happened between them in the last four years, she still feared Agamemnon a little. But she could already see through the open doors of the hall that he was there, and alone. Now was her chance.
He looked toward her as she entered and sent his booming voice across the hall. “Do you have no ladies with you?”
Klytemnestra flinched inwardly. This was a bad start.
“Eudora was busy with the girls,” she said, hoping to soften him with the mention of his children. “It was only a short way.”
He looked a little annoyed, but didn’t say any more. Instead he beckoned her toward him.
“I’ve had news from my brother,” he said when she was a few feet away.
News from Sparta? The prospect filled her with excitement and worry in equal measure.
“Menelaos has been made king,” he said. “Your father still lives,” he continued, just as she was opening her mouth to ask, “but Tyndareos has abdicated, passing the throne on to his rightful successor.”
“Is there any news of Helen?” she asked. They had been told of her pregnancy months ago, and Klytemnestra had been making dedications to both Eileithyia and Artemis ever since.
“Your sister has given birth to a healthy girl,” said Agamemnon, almost with disinterest. “I’m beginning to think the daughters of Tyndareos are incapable of bearing sons,” he added with a touch of venom.
Klytemnestra bowed her head a little, as if with shame. She knew Agamemnon was disappointed that she had not yet provided him with a male heir. Though he loved his daughters dearly, he was determined that his kingdom should pass to his son. She wanted to ask whether Menelaos had said anything of how Helen was recovering, but she thought it would be wiser to use the opportunity to broach her intended subject.
“Perhaps I might bear a son, if you lay with me more often,” she said quietly, and was immediately afraid that she had been too bold.
“Do I not lie with you enough?” he asked, sounding annoyed. “Only last week—”
“It has been three weeks since we lay together,” she said, as quietly as before.
“Are you calling me a liar?” he snapped.
“N-no, my lord,” she replied, faltering slightly at the sound of his raised voice. “I only meant that you were mistaken.”
He was silent for a moment, but she could feel his irritation. She dared not raise her eyes to meet his. She wished she hadn’t started this, but she had come too far to turn back now.
“Forgive me, my husband, but I only wish to be your true wife,” she said. Her next words spilled from her mouth before she could properly plan what she was going to say. “And I have heard that you have taken a concubine and I feel that she is coming between us and the closeness we once shared, and causing you to neglect me as your wife. I humbly ask you to—”
“You will ask me to do nothing,” growled her husband. Klytemnestra took an involuntary step backward, as if physically forced back by his anger. “It is none of your business with whom I do or do not lie,” he continued. “I have every right to take a concubine—several, if I wish it! You should be grateful that I visit your bed at all.”
Klytemnestra was standing dead still, eyes on the ground, trying to stop herself from shaking. This had been a mistake, she knew that now. Now her husband hated her, which was surely worse than neglect. Tears began to drop from her eyes onto the paved floor of the hall.
Perhaps Agamemnon saw them, or perhaps his anger had simply cooled, but when he spoke again his tone had lost some of its edge.
“You are a good wife, Klytemnestra. I appreciate the children you have given me and I respect you as my queen, but you have forgotten your place. Do not speak to me of this again.”
And with that her husband got up from his throne and left the hall. Perhaps he was going hunting, or perhaps he was going to plow his whore. Klytemnestra didn’t want to think about it.
CHAPTER 13
HELEN
Helen opened her eyes. She thought she must be awake, but didn’t quite feel as if she were. It felt like she was coming out of a thick fog, but it still hung around her, weighing her down, filling her lungs, clouding her vision, her thoughts, her whole head. She lay still and waited. Slowly, slowly the fog began to lift, and as she lay there she realized she was staring up at some kind of pattern. Blue and yellow lines folding in and out of one another. A ceiling, she realized. Her ceiling. She was in her own chamber.
She was aware of her body now. Her throat was sore, her head ached, and her skin was stuck to the covers with sweat. She was sure this was not a dream—it felt too real. But then reality had been a confusing notion of late. She felt as if she had been falling from one dream into another for . . . well, she had no idea how long. It could have been hours, it could have been years. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been properly awake.
Yes, she could. She remem
bered blood and pain. So much pain, for so long. And the blood, more than she had seen in her life. She had not dreamed that; it was there in her mind, there before her eyes when she closed them. A visceral memory.
She remembered thinking she was going to die, right here in this bed. She remembered wishing for it, giving herself up to the gods, feeling herself drift away . . . And yet here she was. Alive, as far as she could tell. If this was Elysion it would be a great disappointment, she thought. And then, despite her utter exhaustion, and the trauma of remembered pain, and perhaps because of the absurd surprise of finding herself to be yet living, Helen laughed.
It came out as a dry wheeze, and turned into a cough. Helen saw movement to her left, and then Alkippe’s face appeared above her. Helen thought it was the sweetest face she had ever seen, and smiled weakly.
“Mistress Helen! You’re awake!”
Helen tried to reply, but her throat was too dry. Alkippe’s face disappeared and when she returned she held a cup of water to Helen’s lips. Helen raised her head slightly and gulped the water as if it were nectar, letting what she couldn’t swallow run down her neck in cool rivulets.
“Watch you don’t choke now, mistress,” came Alkippe’s timid voice. “You must be thirsty, though, lying here so long. Your mother has been helping you all she could, giving you water when you’d take it, and honey too. But the fever was so bad, we were worried it would claim you.”
The cup was empty now and Helen laid her head back down, feeling wearied by this small exertion. She sighed and was silent for a moment, closing her eyes to collect herself. When she felt able, she shifted herself into a seated position.
“What happened, Alkippe? How long have I been here? It all feels so muddy in my head.”
“You’ve been lying here nearly a week now, mistress,” replied the handmaid. “It was a bad one. The birth, I mean. I’ve seen babies born before, mistress—helped my mother when she had my brothers—but yours didn’t go how it was supposed to. It was taking too long, hours and hours it went on. Seemed like the baby was never going to come.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Helen slowly, though what she mostly remembered was the pain. Pain never-ending, so it had seemed. And vague recollections of people hurrying about around her, and the looks on their faces. Fear. Concern. Pity.
“The baby didn’t make it,” said Helen suddenly, as the realization hit her. It wasn’t in the room. She couldn’t see it or hear it. It had all been for naught, then. Her eyes stung with tears as that awful thought sank in.
“No, no, mistress! The child lives! Don’t cry,” said Alkippe, placing a reassuring hand on Helen’s forearm. Helen almost flinched at her touch, and it took her a second to realize why. She had been expecting more pain.
“It lives?” Helen asked, struggling to adjust to this new reality.
“Yes, mistress. A little girl, and quite healthy,” said Alkippe smiling. “It is a miracle from the gods, for her to have survived such a birth. We must make thank-offerings to Eileithyia.”
“Yes, a miracle,” Helen repeated vaguely. She did not think she owed anything to Eileithyia, though. She felt as if her body had been torn in two, as if her soul had gone down to Hades and back. And where had Eileithyia been then? Where had any of the gods been, when she was begging for an end to the pain and the blood? She had a daughter, yes, and she knew she should be thankful, but must the price have been so great? Must the gods demand so much of her, and then expect her thanks for the privilege?
“Mistress? Are you all right?” came Alkippe’s voice, bringing Helen back to herself.
“Yes, I’m all right. Just tired,” she said. Then a thought struck her: if the child was alive, why was it not here with her, where it ought to be?
“Where is my daughter?” she asked, scanning the room as if she might appear upon further inspection.
“She is with the wet nurse,” replied Alkippe. “You were so exhausted after the birth, and then the fever came on . . . We had to find someone to feed her, mistress.”
“Oh,” said Helen. “Yes, I suppose you did.”
“But she’ll be right back with you, as soon as you’re well enough. A child needs its mother,” said the handmaid, smiling reassuringly.
Helen managed to summon a small smile in return, though her cheeks felt as if they were made of lead.
“I am so tired, Alkippe,” said Helen. “Might I rest now?”
“Yes, of course, mistress,” the handmaid replied. “I should go and let people know that you are awake and well. I’ll leave you be, but there’s a guard at the door should you need anything.”
Helen smiled weakly with gratitude. Her friend understood that what she really wanted was to be alone. To not have to think or talk or remember. She might be awake but as for being well . . . her body felt utterly drained, and her head still felt as if there were a haze hanging around it. And there was pain too, lower down. In truth, Helen couldn’t tell if it was real or just an imprint of pain remembered, but it hurt all the same.
Alkippe had barely been gone a minute when there was a noise at the door. Helen’s eyes snapped open and she saw her husband enter the chamber.
His eyes met hers, but she quickly looked away. Instinctively she drew the covers up around herself. She did not want to see her husband, nor for him to see her, not now. She felt too vulnerable, too exhausted, too ugly. She knew he could not possibly understand what she had been through. No man could. And in that moment, seeing him suddenly here, she realized that a part of her blamed him for her suffering.
He was beside the bed now, and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder. She flinched.
“I am here, wife. The guard heard you talking and came to tell me. I came as soon as I could. I have been worried.”
Helen still wasn’t looking at her husband. Instead she blinked back the tears that were suddenly in her eyes. She was touched by his concern, knew he was trying to be there for her, but she just couldn’t face him right now. It was too soon.
“Are you well? Has the fever passed?”
Helen made an unintelligible noise in response.
Menelaos hesitated for a moment, perhaps sensing that his presence was not as welcome as he had assumed it would be. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “You did well, Helen. I know it was hard on you, but . . . you did well. That’s . . . that’s what I came to say.”
Helen did look at him now. She saw the uncertainty in his face, and something else too. Was it affection? Or if not that, then at least genuine concern. He seemed to be waiting for something, so she forced her mouth into a weak smile.
A faint look of relief passed across her husband’s face, and then suddenly his head inclined and he looked as if he were going to lean down and kiss her. Helen looked quickly away and she saw him falter at the edge of her vision. After a brief pause he continued to lean down, and softly kissed the top of her head.
Then he straightened up and, with no more words, he left the chamber.
As soon as he was gone Helen released her tears, letting them roll full and fast down her cheeks. She was annoyed at herself, and at Menelaos. It had finally come, the connection, the tenderness she had been yearning for, and yet she could not appreciate it, not right now. He had been trying to reach out to her, but all she wanted to do was to shrink into herself. She could not bear to enter into a new intimacy right now, not when she felt so broken, and especially not with the man who had been the cause of her trauma.
She would mend, though. In time she would feel better, stronger. She would enjoy the child she had suffered so much for and open her heart once again to her husband. She just hoped this new tenderness of his was still there when she was ready to receive it.
CHAPTER 14
KLYTEMNESTRA
Klytemnestra was in the Hearth Hall today. Agamemnon was listening to petitions and had asked her to attend. No doubt he wanted t
o put on a show of familial solidarity, of royal health and prosperity, dressing her up in her finest fabrics and jewelry. As she sat there spinning her purple wool—what else, when she was on display?—she didn’t know whether to be resentful that she was being used in such a way, or grateful that Agamemnon still thought her important enough to join him. She felt as if her role in his life were shrinking by the day—she wouldn’t have been surprised if he had put his concubine in this chair instead of her.
She had a name, Klytemnestra had learned. Leukippe. She had wanted to hate her—somehow that was easier than hating her husband, easier than blaming him for the slow collapse of their marriage—but now that she had seen her she found she could summon no feeling but pity. She had caught glimpses of the girl once or twice around the palace, before abruptly changing course to avoid her. She was pretty, of course, but more than anything she looked like a scared child. Scared and sad and alone. She must be around the age that Helen would be now . . . Klytemnestra would almost feel protective of her, if it weren’t for the circumstances.
The current petition—a farmer hoping to gain a concession on his grain contributions—was over before it had begun. She had learned by now that Agamemnon saw leniency as weakness, and yet as she watched the disappointed man shuffle from the hall, his thin face sour, Klytemnestra couldn’t help thinking that a man would be better able to provide for his kingdom if he could first feed himself and his family.
The farmer had barely left their sight when the next petitioner entered, announced by the herald as “Kalchas of Argos, son of Thestor, seer and priest of Paion-Apollo.”
The man was young, perhaps in his early twenties, but walked with a dignity beyond his years. A priest’s ribbon was tied around his head and he held a staff wrapped with more ribbons. He walked around the square hearth and came to a stop in front of Agamemnon.
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