“Here,” said his father, thrusting the child back toward its mother. “Take him back to the chamber, will you? I can’t stand it when they cry.”
CHAPTER 34
KLYTEMNESTRA
That evening, Klytemnestra was in the Hearth Hall once again, this time seated on her ivory-inlaid chair, her husband enthroned beside her. The children had already been put to bed and Eudora was watching over them. Klytemnestra hadn’t wanted to miss the audience. She knew she had to be here when he came. She had to see his face.
Kalchas was standing before her husband, his feet planted on the stone, the hearth flames flickering behind him. He looked older, Klytemnestra thought. A number of years had passed since she had last seen him, of course, but it seemed as if twice as many had passed for him. The youthful cushion of his cheeks was gone, his broad, smooth brow had become lined, and he leaned on his staff as if his body, too, were worn beyond its years.
“You have my gratitude for arriving so promptly, seer.” Agamemnon leaned back on his throne, his voice booming effortlessly. “Now that I have my pledges, I wish to make the journey to Aulis as soon as possible. I take it from your presence here that you have agreed to my request?”
“Indeed, my lord,” replied the priest, his tone polite but his face unreadable. “I will be honored to serve as seer for the Greeks.”
Klytemnestra’s heart tightened at the confirmation. She had still hoped that he would say no.
“Good to hear it!” barked Agamemnon with a broad smile. “I haven’t forgotten the last time you came to my hall. I knew then that your powers were true. My accident proved you right.”
“You mean your punishment, my lord,” said Kalchas in his soft tones. “I told you that the goddess would punish you.”
“Yes, yes. That’s what I meant,” replied her husband, waving a huge hand dismissively.
“For taking Leukippe.” Kalchas’s face was set like stone, his eyes fixed on Agamemnon.
“Ah, yes! That’s what it was all about, I remember!” His tone was jovial, as if it had all been a good laugh between them. “How is the little bastard? It must be . . . seven, eight by now?”
Klytemnestra saw the priest’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly. “The child didn’t survive the birth. Nor the mother.”
He spoke levelly, but Klytemnestra could feel the pain behind those still features. She felt it too, sadness at the thought of that poor girl torn from life so young, and of the baby too, her husband’s seed. But with the sadness and the pity there rose fear. With those few words the stakes had changed, and she feared that stone face and that calm voice more than ever.
“Ah well, it was the will of the gods,” said her husband more soberly, but his tone was quickly excited once more.
“Have you communed with the gods about my campaign? Do they give good fortune? Are they pleased with my sacrifices?”
Klytemnestra was sure Kalchas would not be able to hide his anger any longer, that he would not let Agamemnon move on so easily from the subject of Leukippe, but when he spoke, he could not have been more gracious.
“There is no need to ask them, my lord, for they have this very day sent me an omen. I saw it as I journeyed here from Argos, a dead hare beside the road, its belly full with young. Two birds sat atop it, one black and one white, tearing at the flesh and the treasure inside. Two birds for two brothers, the glorious Atreidai, the one you, my lord, and the other your wronged brother. And the hare, of course, Troy herself.”
The image made Klytemnestra feel nauseated, but it seemed to please her husband. “Excellent,” he said, rubbing his huge hands together. “Already you have proved your worth, and we have not yet left Mycenae’s walls!” He barked a laugh. “Yes, I knew you would be the right choice. It is decided then. We will leave tomorrow, and you shall accompany us.”
Kalchas bowed reverently.
“Talthybios will show you to your room and provide you with anything you may need. Sleep well—it may be the last proper bed you see for some time!”
The priest bowed again, and left the chamber in silence.
“Please, husband,” whispered Klytemnestra urgently as soon as the doors were shut. “Do not take him with you. Choose another seer. I fear he means you ill.”
“Nonsense. Why should he? You heard the omen. He sees my glory, and he will help me to achieve it.”
“But the girl—”
“Is that what this is about?” he snapped. “It’s a sad business, but nothing that doesn’t happen every day to some poor whore. Why should he care? What was she to him? Some temple servant? I should think he thanked the gods he had two less mouths to feed.”
Klytemnestra looked at her husband, horrified. Was he really so blind? Sometimes she could convince herself that she loved him, but other times . . . She felt sick, with her husband, with what had happened to Leukippe, with the prospect of war, with her utter powerlessness against it all. She could not tell Agamemnon that Leukippe was Kalchas’s sister—she had sworn an oath to the gods on her children’s lives that she wouldn’t—but even if she could tell him, she wondered whether it would make any difference. It was as if walls had closed around him and wax had stopped his ears, and all he could see was Troy and war and his own shining glory.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand and rising from his throne. “I leave in the morning. Let us see if I can put another son in you for when I return.”
CHAPTER 35
KLYTEMNESTRA
It had been almost a month since Agamemnon had left, and yet the palace did not feel as changed as Klytemnestra had thought it would. It was a little emptier perhaps, without some of the faces she was used to seeing, and it felt a little larger without Agamemnon’s sizable presence there to fill it. But daily life was not much different. She still spent her afternoons teaching the girls to spin and weave, still spent half her nights nursing Orestes. It felt as if her husband were only away on one of his visits and would return any day with new gifts to dazzle the children.
There had been one change, though. Each morning, once the children were washed and settled, she would leave them with Eudora and make her way to one of the modestly sized rooms behind the Hearth Hall. It had long held an air of mystery for Klytemnestra, not least because she had never had cause to go there. It wasn’t that it was forbidden to her—not as such—but she knew that her husband would have disapproved. It was not a place to concern ladies, he would have said with a derisive laugh or a scornful wave of the hand. But now, with Agamemnon gone, there was no one to tell her where she ought or ought not to spend her time. And so, the very morning after he had left, this was where she had come.
This morning, as on every morning since that first nerve-filled venture, she tapped on the plain wooden door.
“Good morning, mistress,” said the small man who opened it. He shuffled backward and gestured toward a carved chair, finer than the other furniture that filled the room. “I’ll just get you a fresh tablet, and we can begin.”
This cramped, musty room was where the palace scribes did their work. Here they made records of the goods stored in the palace, of taxes collected from the villages, of sacrifices made to the gods. Here words and numbers were carved in clay, then made solid and stored away in the Archive Room next door. It seemed almost magical to Klytemnestra, and she loved to watch as they scratched busily away as if it were no more difficult than spinning wool.
But what she was really interested in, and what she had primarily come here to learn, was how to understand the symbols that were written. She was the real Queen of Mycenae now, responsible for all that happened both within the palace and outside it. How could she do her duty to her kingdom if she could not read the news brought to her, as a man could? She could not rely on others to report such things. What if they changed the words? What if they left something out? She needed to read it herself.
Eusebios, the
head scribe, had been teaching her what the lines meant, the sound they made, how they fit together. She even practiced drawing them too. She was still very slow and would sometimes make mistakes—some of the shapes looked too similar—but she was getting better, day by day. Eusebios had been surprised at how quickly she could learn.
He had been a reluctant teacher at first. He didn’t think Agamemnon would approve, and feared punishment upon his return. Letters were not for women to learn, and perhaps queens even less. But she had assured him that she would take the blame, if there was any, and convinced him that Mycenae needed a true queen while its king was absent. And it was true, wasn’t it? But as she learned to interpret those mysterious shapes she discovered a whole world that had been hidden from her before. Who knew what her husband, her father, her brothers had read there, how much they had shared with her, and how much they had left silent in the clay? It made her feel powerful, to access that secret world of words without voices.
Perhaps she could share that power with her daughters, she mused as she carefully flattened the surface of the tablet Eusebios had given her. What a gift that would be! And it would be easier for them, to start while they were still young. If they were taught to shape letters like they were taught to spin wool, if they could learn to weave words like they wove their patterns on the loom, in time their hands would do the work all on their own, their thoughts made material almost as soon as they had been conceived.
But not yet. Eusebios had taken a risk in agreeing to teach her, and she did not want to push him too far. Klytemnestra felt that she and the scribe had become friends, almost. It was nice to feel that she had another ally in the palace—other than Eudora and her handmaids. With Agamemnon gone she knew she needed to build her own base of respect and loyalty, if she was to keep Mycenae secure for his return, and for that she needed the support of men.
She had just begun to practice forming the letters with her stylus when there was a knock at the door. She didn’t look up from her work but saw Eusebios rise from his stool beside her.
“A message has arrived. From Lord Agamemnon.”
Klytemnestra lifted her head at the sound of the steward’s voice.
“I was told the queen could be found here,” he continued. She thought she heard a trace of disapproval in his voice, but she told herself she had imagined it.
“Yes, Damon,” she said, standing up to address the steward. “What news? Does the campaign go well? Was the crossing to Troy a success?” She could see that the seal on the tablet he carried had already been broken, and feared what fortune its words might bring. Surely Agamemnon would not send a messenger all the way back from the Troad if it was not something serious.
“The fleet has not yet left Greece, my lady,” Damon reported. “They wait at Aulis still. Lord Agamemnon has delayed their departure until . . . until the princess Iphigenia is wedded to the lord Achilles, Prince of Phthia. The king asks that she be sent to Aulis at once for the ceremony.”
It took Klytemnestra a while to register what the steward had said. Iphigenia, her Iphigenia, was to be wed? And not to any man, but Achilles himself? Yes, his fame had reached her ears. A great warrior, so they said, favored by the gods and heir to his father’s kingdom. She could not have hoped for a better match, and yet . . . it did not feel so long ago that she had held her in her arms, nursed her at her breast. Her firstborn, so pure and delicate and precious. She had known this day would come, that matches would have to be made, for the sake of the kingdom, but it was too soon. Iphigenia was only eleven—too young by far and not ready to become a woman. She had not even started her bleeding yet. How could she send her away to a lonely life in some other man’s palace, far from all who loved her, while her new husband was off fighting a war?
And in that moment, she saw what she must do. She would accompany her daughter to Aulis and negotiate with the men so that Iphigenia might remain at Mycenae for the time being, at least until the war was over. She would not object to the marriage—she was sure Agamemnon must have a good reason for arranging it, to have made the match with Iphigenia still so young—but where was the sense in sending her daughter away when she could not yet be any use as a wife?
Agamemnon would agree, she was sure. All would be well. And it would give her a little more time to cherish her daughter.
“My lady?” came Damon’s voice again.
“Yes. We shall send the princess Iphigenia straight away,” she replied, already planning her entreaty to her husband in her head. “And I shall be going with her.”
CHAPTER 36
KLYTEMNESTRA
They set off the next morning, in a covered wagon to keep off the spots of rain that spattered dully against its canopy. Klytemnestra sat opposite her daughter while a large chest served as a kind of table between them, carrying, among other things, Iphigenia’s bridal outfit. Klytemnestra was thankful she had already made her daughter’s dress and veil, knowing they would one day be needed, though she regretted that they were not as finished as she would have liked. The dress was missing some of its golden finishings and the veil, though neatly woven, was rather thick. She had been planning to make another, but then everything had happened so quickly . . . She should have packed her own wedding veil, she thought suddenly—the gossamer-fine one her mother had made—but it was too late to go back. They had been on the road for over an hour already.
Orestes would probably be having his second feeding of the day about now, she thought, and a pang of guilt spasmed in her chest. It had pained her to leave him with the wet nurse, her own flesh, so small and precious, but he was safer at the palace than on the road. And right now her daughter needed her more.
She looked over at Iphigenia, who was watching the hills as they crawled by. She had made no complaint about leaving so suddenly, nor any challenge to her father’s wishes. She had always idolized him. More than anything she had been pleased that she would be able to see him again before he made the crossing to Troy.
Klytemnestra smiled as she watched her daughter’s bright eyes taking in the landscape. It was not often that the girls had opportunity to leave the palace; Elektra had sulked that she was not allowed to come with them. And as she too began to watch the hills Klytemnestra realized that this journey would take her farther from Mycenae than she had been since arriving there twelve years ago. How nervous she had been on that other wagon ride, herself a young bride, knowing and yet not knowing what awaited her at its end. She looked at Iphigenia again, trying to read her. Was she nervous? Was she thinking about the wedding? About what might happen afterward? If she was, she didn’t show it. But sometimes it was hard to tell with her. She was always so bright, so sweet—Klytemnestra sometimes worried that she hid away her sadness just to save others from the burden of it.
“They say the lord Achilles is a great man,” she ventured, keeping her eyes on the damp landscape. “A great warrior. And faster on his feet than any man alive.”
In the corner of her eye she saw Iphigenia turn her head briefly toward her, and then back to the hills.
“Yes, I’m sure he is. A great man, I mean,” she said cheerfully. Then, after a brief pause, “I don’t think Father would let him marry me if he weren’t.”
There was the shadow of a question in her small voice, and Klytemnestra swept in to reassure her.
“No, of course he wouldn’t. You are a princess of Mycenae. Your father wouldn’t just give you away to any man.” She smiled across at her daughter, who smiled back.
“Yes, I thought so,” she said, almost to herself, and turned her eyes back to the hills.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, bouncing in their seats a little as the wagon made its way over the rocks and ditches that marked the narrow valley road. Eventually Iphigenia spoke again.
“Even if he is a great man—I’m sure he is, if Father has chosen him—but . . . even if he is . . . I’m not sure if I’m ready t
o be a wife.”
Her thin words hung in the air and she kept her eyes on the hills, but as Klytemnestra reached out and took her hand, she turned her neat golden head toward her mother, and for the first time since hearing of her father’s request, Klytemnestra saw a little concern in her eyes.
“There’s no need to worry,” said Klytemnestra with a warm smile. “It’s just a little ceremony, to make everything official. You won’t have to be his wife yet, not until you’re ready. You’re too young for all that.” She squeezed her daughter’s hand. “We’ll do the rites and the feast, and you might have to let him kiss you—just a little kiss—but after that you’ll be coming back home with me.” She smiled again, trying to reassure herself as much as Iphigenia. “You’ll see. Your father will listen. And I’ll be with you all the time we’re there.”
Iphigenia exhaled a little and returned her mother’s smile.
“I’m glad you’re here,” was all she said, before turning her eyes back to the hills.
I’m glad I am, too, Klytemnestra said silently to herself, watching her daughter’s face, the way the wind rippled her fair hair, the way her eyes darted about the landscape. She didn’t want Iphigenia to worry, but her own fears swelled beneath the surface even as she was trying to allay her daughter’s. What if she could not convince the men? Was she foolish to think she could even try? Could she really promise her daughter that she would come home again once all this was done? These might be some of the final days the two of them would spend together. Every minute was precious, every second irretrievable. She would savor this journey, and her daughter, as much as she was able.
* * *
It felt all too soon when Klytemnestra glanced ahead of them in the early evening of the third day and saw, beyond the next brow, black masts huddled against the gray-blue sky like tall, leafless trees. She swallowed at the sight of them, nerves rising in her throat, and touched Iphigenia’s arm lightly.
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