Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  * * *

  Klytemnestra stood at the top of the Great Stairs, heart thumping. She felt the sweat bead on her brow and wiped it away. Her mouth tasted of blood.

  Could she really do this? Standing there in that tent, ten years ago, dagger in hand, she had been ready. She had been willing to take his life. But now? So much time had passed. The anger she had felt then, the tearing pain, the burning grief, they were as old scars now. Deep and sad and quiet. An ache where there had been agony. They still woke her in the night, still twisted in her gut each morning as she made the journey out to her daughter’s tomb. But she wondered whether her husband carried wounds of his own. What trials he must have faced in the long war. What pains, what losses. He too must have grieved for Iphigenia, for the evil he had done. What remorse must have weighed upon him all these years. Perhaps the man returning to their shore would not be the one who had left it.

  Was there still time? Could she still go inside and tell Aigisthos that she had changed her mind? He could flee before Agamemnon reached the citadel. She could keep Aletes at the palace—pass him off as a bastard of one of her serving women. She could see him every day, and keep him safe. And Aigisthos . . . at least he would be alive.

  She had been fooling herself that she could make a new life. Her life had been chosen for her all those years ago. By her father, by her birth, by her sex. Who was she to rail against fortune? To turn her back on duty?

  She had been a good wife. Wasn’t that what she had always strived to be? And she could be one again. All this had been a madness. A beautiful insanity. But even now she could make it right. She could be loyal to her husband for the rest of her days. Even if she hated him, she could do it. She would still have her children.

  As she stood, heels sprung, ready to turn back and yet unable to move, she heard it. The clang of metal, the heavy scraping of wood on stone. The colossal gates of the citadel were opening.

  Too late. Too late. Legs shaking, she began to descend. With each step she imagined him drawing closer. Through the Lion Gate. Up the ramp. Could she hear the wheels of his chariot? The breath of his horse? She pictured him gray-faced, war-beaten.

  And then she saw him. And he looked . . . the same as he always had. Tall and strong atop his chariot. Chest out, cheeks ruddy. He held up a royal hand to greet the men and women whom he passed, and he was . . . smiling.

  And beside him—

  Klytemnestra’s heart stopped for a moment as she saw the blond head. But it was not her daughter. The frail creature behind her husband, clinging to the chariot’s edge and swaying as it rumbled over the stones, was unknown to her. Even from this distance it was clear the girl was terrified. She looked younger than Elektra, her eyes wide and wild. And as the chariot drew closer Klytemnestra spotted the bonds around her raw wrists.

  Suddenly her fear was gone, forced aside by a swell of anger. Her husband had not changed. He would never change. He would continue to ruin lives, to take what he wanted, to waste and spend and abuse. She fought to keep her face smooth as she descended the last few steps, her fists clenched as they held her skirt.

  “Lord Agamemnon,” she called, as the chariot and its entourage drew up. “Husband.” She was surprised at how steady her voice sounded. “Welcome home.”

  “It is good to see my own walls once more,” he said, dismounting from the chariot. As he stepped toward her she saw that his limp persisted, yet he held himself proudly despite it. He looked up the empty steps behind her. “Is this it? No crowds to greet and honor their victorious lord?” There was a crack in his smile. “Where are my children?”

  “They are inside, husband. All safe and well.” She forced a smile. “I thought you would be weary after your journey. I have prepared some refreshments for you. And the slaves are drawing you a bath as we speak.”

  Agamemnon paused to consider, but after a moment gave a satisfied smile.

  “Yes. Plenty of time for celebrations later. And the gold has not yet been brought from the boats . . . Yes, better to wait.” He glanced back at the chariot. “I’ll need two baths drawn. One for the girl.”

  The girl in the chariot flinched at his mention of her.

  “Of course, husband,” said Klytemnestra, as graciously as she could manage. “I’ll have one of the guest chambers—”

  “No. The girl stays with me. Have another bath brought to my chamber. Side by side.”

  He looked down at her, as if daring her to object.

  “Yes, husband. I will have it done just as you say.” She bowed her head serenely, though inside it her thoughts were racing. She hadn’t expected this. Would it ruin their plan? No. It would make no difference. She mustn’t lose her nerve.

  She led the way up the steps, with Agamemnon and the girl following. The rest of the king’s companions stayed below to stable the horses—so that was a relief, at least. The fewer people in the palace, the better. She could deal with them later. She would make them see. Or if not . . . she couldn’t think about that now.

  They were at the entrance. As they passed into the atrium, Klytemnestra called to the slaves who were waiting, in a voice louder than was needed.

  “The king requires two baths drawn. Have one of the guest baths carried to his chamber. As quick as you can.”

  She hoped that Aigisthos was close enough to hear. What else could she do? While she was sure the girl would pose no threat, she was a factor they had not anticipated.

  “The water has already been heated,” she said, turning back to Agamemnon. “It will not be long.”

  As soon as she had finished speaking a slave appeared at her elbow, a large jug of wine and two cups in his arms.

  “Your refreshment, husband,” she said, passing a full cup to Agamemnon.

  “This has not been mixed,” he said, eyeing the dark liquid with a frown.

  “This is a time for celebration, not moderation,” she said with convincing joviality. As he nodded and began to drain his cup, she hoped her relief did not show. The wine would do little, but she would take every advantage available to her.

  She filled the second cup and offered it to the girl.

  “Here,” she said gently. “You must be thirsty.”

  But the girl simply stared at her, as glassy-eyed as she ever had been.

  “It will make you feel better,” said Klytemnestra, holding the cup closer, but the girl did not move.

  “You’ll get nothing out of that one,” grunted Agamemnon, taking his lips from his cup momentarily. “Hasn’t said a word all the way from Troy.”

  Klytemnestra looked at the girl—at the tear trails on her cheeks and the fading bruise around her eye. She wished she would take a little wine, for her own sake.

  As Agamemnon emptied the last of his cup, a slave appeared in the entrance hall.

  “The baths are drawn, my la—I mean, my lord.” He looked uncertain as his eyes passed between the two of them.

  “Thank you, Nikias,” she nodded, and the boy hurried away again.

  Klytemnestra’s mouth was suddenly dry as she walked with Agamemnon down the corridor, the girl trailing behind them.

  * * *

  The chamber was dark and humid, the steam from the two baths rising in the lamplight.

  Klytemnestra insisted on attending Agamemnon herself, and he made no quarrel. Wasting no time, he threw off his tunic and lowered his aging bulk into the hot water.

  “Come, girl,” he said, seeing that his Trojan prize still stood by the door. “The other is for you. Take off your dress.”

  The girl did not move.

  “Would you like me to help you?” Klytemnestra asked, but the girl shrank away from her outstretched hand.

  Her wild eyes flickered between Agamemnon and the steaming water, and she seemed to reach a decision, or at least an acceptance. With bony hands she pulled the once-fine cloth up over her body.
<
br />   Klytemnestra had to stifle a gasp. The girl’s pale flesh was covered in bruises. Some old and yellow. Others fresh and dark. They speckled her arms, her waist, the inside of her thighs.

  Klytemnestra’s stomach turned. The poor girl. And how many others like her? Carried off to Greek palaces, with the gold and the bronze and the ivory. At least this one’s suffering would be over soon. She could protect her, let her live in the palace, where no one would ever hurt her again.

  She turned away, realizing that she had been staring. She let the girl lower herself into the empty bath as she turned her attention to Agamemnon. It took a stomach of stone to put her hands on that chest, to scrub that skin, to wash the dirt from that hair. It was a wonder her hands shook as little as they did. And all the while she felt the knife’s hilt press against her hip, hidden among the folds of her dress.

  Where are you? What was taking Aigisthos so long? It felt as if she had been here for an age.

  And then the door creaked.

  She let out a silent sigh. And yet her heart was beating faster than ever. He was here now. The time had come.

  “Some fresh water, my lady,” he said in a gruff voice. He wore a hood, but it was not needed. Agamemnon did not even turn his head.

  With her left hand still nestled in his hair, her right went to her hip. Aigisthos knelt beside her, but she didn’t turn. She saw his arms rise and raised her hand too.

  One breath. Another.

  And then she pulled. Agamemnon’s head came back and her knife went down. Across the neck and into the chest. And again and again. His blood spurted and the water splashed, his great body writhing like a sea beast. But his arms were pinned. His strength poured out of him into the churning water, spilling over onto the marble floor.

  The smell was sickening, but Klytemnestra was like a woman possessed. Like a priestess at the sacrifice. As the knife cut through that detested flesh it was as if she were shearing off pieces of herself. The calluses, the scars, the layers of stinking rot—the heavy casing that had sat upon her all these years, bloated, hardened, suffocating. It all fell away in the plunging of the knife.

  As her arm tired and slowed, she saw that Agamemnon’s strength was spent. His face stared up from the black bath, his arms limp, no longer held in Aigisthos’s grip.

  She turned her head, looking for those eyes, for strength, for relief.

  He had moved away, was knelt beside the other bath, something glinting in his hand.

  “No!” she cried, but it was already done.

  The girl choked but made no fight, the lifeblood pouring from her throat unstemmed. Klytemnestra’s knees scrabbled across the wet floor, but there was nothing to do but stare at the white throat and the red blood and the fair hair stained black, and to scream and scream.

  CHAPTER 57

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  It was a strange day for a funeral. Or perhaps it only felt that way to Klytemnestra. The sky was too clear, the breeze too pleasant. There was a voice in her head, kneading at the edge of her consciousness, telling her that it should be harder, that she should feel more. But all she felt was relief.

  The emotion had already come and gone, last night in that bloody chamber. Like a great wave, it had smashed and crashed and broken her, like wood against the rocks. Now all that remained was the calm.

  She and Aigisthos walked at the back of the procession, Aletes with them. Elektra was leading at the head, her guttural song ringing out above the other mourners. Klytemnestra knew it would be inappropriate for her to lead the song, to walk beside the body of her husband. And yet she knew she must be here, to show her respect, to do her duty.

  “He left my father’s body for the dogs to tear,” muttered Aigisthos beside her as the cortege passed through the Lion Gate. “You do him more honor than he ever gave.”

  “He was a king,” was all she said in reply.

  As they reached the bottom of the slope, Klytemnestra’s stride stiffened. To the left of the road, among the older grave monuments, was a mound of fresh earth. She clenched Aigisthos’s hand as she dragged her eyes away.

  He had been so sorry. Had held her as she screamed, rocked her as she shook.

  “But you asked for two baths.” His confused voice drifted back to her. “I thought that meant . . .”

  He was only trying to help her. That was what she told herself. How could he know? But to do it so easily . . .

  “She was his whore.”

  No. She was a girl. Just another girl swept along by the world. With parents and a home and her own spirit, once. And that had hurt more than anything. That punching realization that even her sweet, loving Aigisthos, even he did not understand.

  But she had forgiven him. How could she not? This new world was too terrifying to face alone. And how could she hold him to shame, after what she had done? They must each bear their own burden.

  The procession came to a stop, swelling around the royal tomb as the doorway was unsealed. Klytemnestra could see her daughters now. Chrysothemis’s young head was bowed, solemn and thoughtful. But Elektra . . . her eyes were fierce, blazing in their grief, tears running into her mouth as it poured out its wailing song. As Klytemnestra watched, chest heavy, their eyes met, and the song grew louder, angrier, the notes breaking from Elektra’s throat like curses. For the first time that morning, tears stung in Klytemnestra’s eyes.

  She knew that her daughter might never forgive her. She felt it in her knotted heart. But what should she have done? What else could she have done? She loved her children above all else, but each was like a rope tethered to her breast, pulling in its own direction. She could not let Iphigenia’s death go unavenged, but had justice for one daughter lost her another? Would she have lost a son—sweet, blameless Aletes—if she had not done it? Would she lose a son still, if Orestes was not released back to her?

  Her heart was racing, her head suddenly light. She grasped Aigisthos’s arm to stop her knees from buckling and drew in a few steadying breaths.

  She had always tried to do what was best, hadn’t she?

  Yes, she told herself. She had tried.

  With silent lips she made a prayer to the gods. That she had made the right choice. That the future would be easier. That her children would be safe. Lastly, she prayed that her new life would be a blessed and happy one, as far as any life can be.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are many people whom I would like to thank for the part they have played in making this book possible.

  Firstly, I would like to thank my very first readers for their feedback and encouragement: Dr. Kathryn van de Wiel, Steph McCallum, and especially Ilona Taylor-Conway for being my first fan and convincing me that what I had written was worth reading.

  I would like to thank my agent, Sara Keane, for believing in my manuscript, for inducting me into the world of publishing, and for her ongoing support and advice. I would of course like to thank the team at Hodder for making this book a reality, especially my fantastic editor Thorne Ryan for her insight, encouragement, and hard work in making Daughters of Sparta the best it can be. I would also like to thank Stephanie Kelly for championing my book across the pond at Dutton, and for her valuable editorial contributions.

  Lastly, thank you to my family and friends for all their support. It can feel like a bit of a lonely leap into the unknown to start writing your first novel, so thank you to everyone who has taken an interest and cheered me along. Thank you to my parents, Juliette and Martin Heywood, for their love and support, for fostering my creativity and my love of books, and for providing a roof over my head while I was writing much of the first draft. And finally, special thanks to my partner, Andrew, for his endless encouragement, patience, and good humor; for keeping my spirits up during the rough patches; for celebrating the little victories with me; and for supporting me to pursue my dream. I couldn’t wish for a better partner to share the jou
rney.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Claire Heywood is a scholar of the ancient world, with a bachelor’s degree in Classical Civilization and a master’s degree in Ancient Visual and Material Culture from the University of Warwick. Daughters of Sparta is her first novel.

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