Some twelve came—an impressive number. Among them were the prince of Tiryns, two sons of Nestor of Pylos, a warrior from Thebes, a cousin of the royal house of Theseus of Athens, and a young king of tiny Nemea. The rest sent emissaries—these came from Rhodes, Crete, Salamis, and faraway Thessaly. And then, on the last day, the brothers Atreus—Agamemnon and Menelaus of Mycenae—climbed the hill and stood before the palace gates.
Mother turned visibly pale, and her hand fluttered up to her white neck. “No . . .” she breathed, so low that only I, standing close by her side, could hear.
Father’s face betrayed nothing. He welcomed them as he had welcomed the others, with a set greeting: Noble guest, come into my home.
I knew about the curse on their house. Everyone did. In a land where we children grew up on tales of ghastly murders and betrayals, the story of the sons of Pelops still stood out, a story that had not ended yet and was therefore even more frightening.
Briefly, then: The king Pelops had two sons, Atreus and Thyestes. In struggling for supremacy, Atreus killed the three sons of Thyestes, and cooked them into a stew, which he then served to his brother. In horror, Thyestes cursed Atreus and all his descendants. Atreus had two sons, Agamemnon and Menelaus.
There was much more to the story, adulteries and more murders, unnatural liaisons, treachery, and lies. But now the embodiment of the curse, Agamemnon, had come to seek Clytemnestra’s hand.
Agamemnon was a dark-haired, stocky man with a heavy beard and thick lips. His eyes were oddly large and his nose fleshy; his neck was short and so his head seemed to spring directly from his shoulders. If he needed to look to the side, he almost had to turn his entire body around. I saw how muscled his arms were, hanging down by his side, and suddenly a picture of him strangling someone flashed through my mind. That he could do it barehanded, I had no doubt.
A servant behind him was carrying a long thin gold-inlaid box, holding it out like a precious sacrifice.
“Is that the scepter?” Father asked.
“Indeed, yes. Did you think I would come without it?” Agamemnon’s voice was as heavy and dolorous as the rest of him.
Father then turned to greet the other man, Agamemnon’s younger brother. “Menelaus, noble guest, come into my home.”
“I thank you, great king.”
Menelaus. My first glimpse of him. Like his brother, he was wide-shouldered and heavy with muscles. But his hair was a lighter, reddish gold, thick and wavy like a lion’s mane, and his mouth turned up in a smile rather than down in a frown. It was hard to believe that he, too, carried a dark curse, for there was nothing in his person to suggest it.
“I come, dear King Tyndareus, to bolster my brother’s courage in seeking for the princess’s hand.” This voice was plainspoken, but not rough. It was very deep, making him seem larger than he was, but it was a reassuring deepness.
“I do not understand,” said Father. “You do not come as a suitor yourself?”
“There has been too much rivalry between brothers in our house,” he said. “Has it not caused enough sorrow? No, it is enough that I may personally encourage my brother’s suit.” He bowed his head in an oddly formal manner, and at that moment he saw me. Like all the others, he stared. Everyone who had stepped into the palace, who had passed the royal family and me, had likewise been rooted for a moment. Some stammered. Others swallowed.
He smiled a little, said nothing, and followed his servant.
Thank you for saying nothing! I thought. Thank you, thank you! I was instantly grateful.
For I had been granted my wish: to stand before people without any barrier, without a veil. It had been unpleasant. After the first two men had acted as if they had seen an apparition, I became embarrassed and then frightened and then angry. I was more trapped without a veil than I had been behind one. Yet had I not requested this very thing?
The men drew lots for the order of the day of their appearance. No one wanted to be first; somewhere near the end was most advantageous. Had this been a performance with no prize in sight, then to appear toward the end would have been bad, because by then the audience would be restless and inattentive. But in this case, the man who went first might find himself forgotten by Clytemnestra by the time she had to choose.
Euchir, the young king of Nemea, had the misfortune to be first. He bore himself well. He spoke of Nemea in its valley, saying it lay far enough from Sparta that Clytemnestra could feel she truly had a new home, but close enough that she would never be severed from her family. He promised a crown that was uncompromised by other claimants or prophecies. (Clever point! The brothers Atreus must have hated that.) Then, charmingly, he ordered his trunk opened, and displayed part of the impenetrable hide of the lion of Nemea that Heracles had slain—the city’s pride.
I could tell from Clytemnestra’s face that she was not impressed. He was a sapling to her, too slight and too green for consideration. She confirmed my thoughts by declining to ask him anything, and he had to take himself and his lion skin away.
At the feast afterward, the bard plucked his lyre and sang of the deeds of Euchir’s ancestors. His voice was increasingly lost in the rising noise of the hall as more wine made men speak loudly. He glared at them; this bard was not blind as many were.
After a great long while it was over, and we could go to bed.
And on and on it went for days. After the first few, they all began to blend together. Perhaps they seemed indistinguishable to me because Clytemnestra showed no interest in any of them.
The two sons of Nestor of Pylos were as long-winded as their father, she said.
The prince of Tiryns was as heavy and gray as his city’s fortifications.
The warrior from Thebes would be awkward in a palace. He probably sleeps under his shield, she quipped.
As the numbers still to present their suits dwindled, I wondered what would happen if the last spoke his piece and she was still unmoved. Must we hold this contest year after year, hoping someone new would appear?
Agamemnon was the next-to-last to present his suit. He strode out into the center of the hall and took his stand, planting his legs like posts. His head lifted, he looked once around at all the faces, then fixed his attention on Father.
“I, Agamemnon, son of Atreus, do here present myself as husband for your daughter. If chosen, I shall make her my queen, the queen of Mycenae. She shall be honored and obeyed throughout all Argos, and I shall strive to assure that she shall never have an unfulfilled wish, if it lies within my power.”
“And what do you bring to show us?” Clytemnestra spoke.
There was a deep silence. This was the first time she had asked anything of a suitor.
Agamemnon grinned. I thought it made his face sinister, as the heavy black beard parted, revealing his gash of a mouth. “Princess, I will show it betimes.” He left his place and fetched the long inlaid box from its resting place beside a pillar. Placing it carefully in the center of the megaron, near the hearth, he opened it with great ceremony. Then he reached in and took out the scepter, holding it aloft, turning so everyone could see.
“Behold the work of the god Hephaestus!” he cried.
It looked like any other scepter to me—the length of a man’s arm, about the same thickness, too. That it was of bronze made it unusual.
“Tell me, King, the story of this scepter.” Clytemnestra was leaning forward.
“I am honored to do so,” he said. His voice resounded like thunder that is too close. “Hephaestus fashioned this in his heavenly forge for Zeus. Zeus presented it to Pelops, who then gave it to Atreus. From Atreus, Thyestes took it, and then it came to me as its rightful wielder.”
“Shall I wield it, too?” Clytemnestra was almost standing now in her excitement, and her voice also sounded loud as thunder.
Agamemnon looked startled, but quickly recovered. His eyes finally joined his mouth in smiling. “I shall have to ask Zeus’s permission,” he said. “After all, it is Zeus’s, and so far it has
only passed through the hands of men.”
“Do not ask Zeus,” Clytemnestra said. “He is prejudiced because of his dealings with Hera, and will always deny the wife. I ask you.”
For just an instant he hesitated. Then he gestured to her. “Come here and take it yourself.”
I saw Father go stiff. This was against all protocol, and he moved to disqualify Agamemnon. But as he rose, Clytemnestra stepped from her place and went over to Agamemnon. Briefly they looked into each other’s eyes, testing for mastery. Neither looked away, and, still keeping her eyes on Agamemnon, Clytemnestra grasped the shaft of the scepter, closing her fingers around it.
“It seems you have decided the matter,” Agamemnon said. “Now I need not ask of heaven.”
The feast and gathering following this could not but be affected by the couple’s extraordinary actions. People were so stunned that they could not help talking about it, even if they were reduced to whispering amid the pleasantries.
“A woman has touched the god-hewn scepter.”
“Does she mean to wrest it from Agamemnon?”
“If the gods permit such a thing, does that mean that they would allow a woman to rule alone?”
I overheard all these questions nestled between comments on the roasted kid, the quality of the firewood, and the near-full moon.
I stayed close to my family, especially wanting to know what Mother thought. But, queen that she was, she betrayed nothing, nor would she speak her true thoughts where there was the slightest chance that anyone might overhear.
Father was more transparent, and I could tell by his glowering that he was highly displeased. Castor treated it as an amusement—“Clytemnestra looked regal with the scepter”—whereas Polydeuces found it offensive—“To spar in public like two boxers demeans them both.” I myself did not care for Agamemnon, but I had to admit that he brought out Clytemnestra’s fire and that perhaps they were well suited.
I left Castor and stood for a moment at the edge of the hall, where the covered porch gave way to the open courtyard and, beyond that, the moonlit grounds. Looking up, I saw that the moon had only one more night before it was full. It shone brightly, casting sharp shadows from the edge of the roof and the tall poplars swaying in the wind, the same wind that ruffled the shoulders of my gown.
Someone came and stood beside me, disturbing my solitude. I thought that if I ignored him he would turn away. Instead he spoke.
“I fear my brother’s behavior has displeased you.” It was Menelaus.
“No,” I said, feeling bound to answer. “Not displeased, but surprised. Yet it seemed to appeal to my sister, and after all she is the one whose favor must be won.”
“It was bold of him.”
“A gamble that may pay off.”
“Does boldness appeal to both sisters?”
I could look at the moonlit grounds no longer, keeping my profile to him. “I do not care for boldness for its own sake,” I finally said, turning to him.
“Nor do I,” he said. “I am not sure I am capable of it myself. I am quite different from Agamemnon.”
“As I am from Clytemnestra,” I said. “Brothers and sisters are never mere copies of one another.”
Outside in the night I heard the call of a nightingale. The warm winds of spring stirred it, the same warm winds that were stirring the hems of our garments. “No,” he said. “And sometimes there’s more in common between unrelated strangers. Clytemnestra and Agamemnon are both dark-haired, and we are both light.”
I laughed. “Yes, that is one thing.” His hair was a redder gold than mine, but they were similar. And we had both chosen to stand apart from the crowd at the feast, to look out into the night: another similarity.
A long silence now descended. Although I had wished him not to speak, now that he was beside me and had ceased doing so, it felt awkward. Why did he not reply? The nightingale called again, sounding very close.
He seemed content just to lean on the little balustrade and keep looking out onto the moonlit courtyard. The edge of it cut into his muscled forearms, but he did not move them. His hands were finely made, perfect and strong. They hung loosely, relaxed. I thought of Father’s, nervous and veined like a monkey’s, and always plucking at something. Father’s were also festooned with rings. I saw that Menelaus only wore one, so that his hands looked naked for a man of standing.
“What are you thinking?” he finally said.
I was startled at his directness. “I was wondering about your ring,” I admitted. “That you wear only one.”
He laughed and held up his hand. “I need my hands to be free, not weighed down, even with gold.”
“What is on it, then? What does it show?” I could see it was incised with figures.
He pulled it off and gave it to me. In the deep hollows of the oval I could barely make out two dogs flanking a curved object. Their heads arched toward the edges of the oval, making a graceful half circle. As I turned the ring to catch the carvings in the dull light, I realized how thick it was and how much gold it held. The House of Atreus was rich; in that Clytemnestra had made a good match. Zeus gave power to the House of Aeacus, wisdom to the House of Amythaon, but wealth to the House of Atreus: I had heard that saying from Father’s lips.
“My two hunting dogs,” he said. “When we were fleeing from Mycenae, they faithfully accompanied us. They are gone now, but I keep them with me this way.”
“You are loyal to them as they were loyal to you.”
He smiled as he drew the ring back on. “Yes. I shall never forget.”
And we cannot forget, either: the reason you were driven away, the dreadful curse of your house, I thought. At the same time, he must have been remembering the unspeakable thing hanging over our house, my mother’s deed. We were both defined by our family histories, yet must not speak openly of them. I laughed, a quiet, sad laugh.
“This amuses you?” he said. “Loyalty?”
“No. What amuses me is the weight we both carry, and must not speak of. Yet you seem to carry it lightly enough.”
“I try to make it look that way.” He gave a smile, and won my admiration.
“Oh, so here you are!” A loud drunken voice cut through our privacy. “Little brother!” Agamemnon swaggered up, rubbing his belly in satisfaction, and reeled, sagging, against Menelaus. “Hiding? You should be celebrating with me. I’ve found the wife I need!”
Menelaus pushed him away, and Agamemnon swayed back and forth on buckling knees, eyeing me. “Ehhh . . .” he murmured. “Is she really the most beautiful—”
“Silence!” ordered Menelaus. “Drink more and cease your stupid babbling.”
Thus the hated phrase was stopped halfway through. I signaled my thanks to Menelaus, then slid away from the distasteful brother hanging on his shoulder, the man soon to be my own brother-in-law.
VIII
I was awake before dawn, watching the moon set behind the trees on our hilltop. The breeze was still stirring, stealing into the room between the columns. There was a faint stale scent of the megaron fire, burned out now.
Being up so early, I was able to assist Clytemnestra in her dressing. Only one more day for her to dress formally; only one more day to attire herself in what must appear to be the fourteenth different costume. In truth, she combined her gowns and mantles and brooches in changing ways to make it appear that she had many.
“Bring me the bright scarlet!” she ordered her servant as I stepped in. She was magisterial that morning, her color vivid. There was something different about her.
The servant returned, bearing a bolt of cloth so red it would make a poppy look pale. Clytemnestra smiled and picked it up. “Yes!” she said.
“It is the color of blood,” I said. Are you sure you wish to . . . to look like a warrior?”
“A warrior-man needs a warrior-woman,” she said, holding the cloth under her face.
“So your mind is still settled on Agamemnon?”
“Yes. I shall wed him. I shall g
o to Mycenae.” With no hesitation she stripped off her sleeping gown and stood naked for a moment before sliding the red wool over her body. She had an unusually strong body, broad-shouldered but not like a man’s. Her face was likewise strong of feature, but not masculine in the least. It was her spirit that was so bold.
“I shall miss you,” I said, my voice low. I was just realizing how much. From my earliest memories she had been there, protecting me, teasing me, playing with me. Now her chambers would be empty.
“But we knew this must happen,” she said. She was so straightforward. Her thinking was thus: I am a woman. I must wed. When I wed, I may leave Sparta. What is the surprise in that, in the what-must-be?
Her acceptance of it—of leaving me—hurt. “But Agamemnon!” I said. “What about the—the—”
“The curse?” She was pinning the shoulders of her gown. She did not reply until she had gotten them just right. Then she turned and looked searchingly at me. “I cannot explain it, not even to myself. But the curse is part of the reason I want him.”
I was horrified. “Why do you wish to bring self-destruction upon your head?”
“Because I believe I can thwart it—even overcome it,” she said, lifting her chin. “It has issued a challenge. I will take up that challenge.”
“But to bring our house into this circle of destruction! Oh, please do not!”
“Are you forgetting we also have our bad prophecies? Aphrodite has vowed to Father that his daughters will be married several times and leave our husbands—did he ever tell you that? If you intend to be faithful to your husband, then you also will be trying to challenge a prophecy, to overcome it.”
I wanted to say, Please don’t leave our house! Don’t leave me behind. And don’t marry Agamemnon. I don’t like him! But I would never voice those words. When a daughter left home to wed, there was always an empty place in the family.
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