“Would you care for some refreshment, mistress? I have brought you water and some dates.”
The voice wasn’t one of the household servants she was used to and yet somehow it was familiar . . .
She turned her head and there, looking down at her, was a face she recognized.
“You’re the priest,” she gasped, a sudden fear prickling her skin. “Why are you dressed as a slave? What are you doing here?”
She looked over her shoulder, wondering whether she should call out. They had brought no guards with them, but there were a couple of slaves not far away.
“Please don’t,” murmured the man above her. “I only want to talk to you.”
Klytemnestra had drawn a breath to shout but now she held it, unsure what to do. The man did not appear to be armed—he had put out his empty hands toward her, as if to stay any action she might take. He looked as worried as she was, and there was a pleading in his eyes.
She let out her breath and relaxed a little, eyeing the man cautiously. His hands still held out, he crouched down beside her, and began to pour a cup of water from the large waterskin he had brought over.
“Please don’t be alarmed,” he said in a low voice as he poured. “Act normally and they will think I am merely attending you.” He held the full cup out for her to take. After a little hesitation, Klytemnestra reached out and took it from him, her fingertips touching his briefly as she did. She drew her hand back quickly.
“I remember you,” she said quietly, looking straight ahead of her so as not to look suspicious. “You came to the Hearth Hall last week. About the girl.”
“Yes, Leukippe,” he said. “My name is Kalchas.”
“Why did you come here, pretend to be one of my slaves? You took a great risk. If Agamemnon finds out—”
“Yes, it was a risk,” he said, opening a small box of dates at the edge of her vision. “But I had to speak with you. Alone. And I trust you not to tell your husband.” He held out the box to her so that she had to turn and look at him. “I can see in your eyes that you have a kind heart.”
She took a date and brought it to her lips, but suddenly she felt self-conscious. It was not proper for her to be talking to a strange man without her veil. The rules up here might be different, but the standards of basic decency still applied. She could not cover herself, though—it would arouse suspicion.
She ate the date awkwardly and swallowed as soon as possible, almost choking as it went down.
“What is it that you want from me?” she whispered when her throat was clear.
“I have come on account of Leukippe,” Kalchas replied. She could feel his gaze on her, but she continued looking straight ahead.
“Yes, I had assumed that much,” she said. “The girl must mean a lot to the temple, for you to risk so much on her account.” There was a question in her voice as she said this, but it went unanswered so she continued, “Why have you come to me, Kalchas? You have already petitioned my husband and heard his reply. I don’t know what power you think I have but—”
“I came because I believe you are a good woman . . . and because there is something I did not tell the king.”
Klytemnestra was silent, waiting for him to continue.
“Leukippe is my sister.”
“Your sister?” said Klytemnestra, turning to look at him. She had suspected some personal connection to the girl to risk himself so, but had assumed that he was in love with her.
“Yes. Though sometimes I feel more like her father.” He sighed. “Our parents passed when she was young—I have raised her myself, more or less.” He paused again and looked directly into Klytemnestra’s eyes. “I know that you too have a younger sister—the famous Helen of Sparta. I thought that you might understand . . . that you might help me. I had hoped Leukippe would join the temple so that I could watch over her, but I know that chance is lost now . . . She could still get a marriage, though, a good one to a good man, a happy life. That’s all I want for her—surely you can understand?” There was a desperation in his eyes. “That’s why I have to get her away. No respectable man will marry another man’s castoff, a king’s whore. But if we get her out soon, before . . . I can find her a husband in another town, where the gossip hasn’t spread. Please. I beg you. Say that you will help me.”
Klytemnestra was dumbfounded by the man’s torrent of words. His concern was so heartfelt, his distress so sincere. Perhaps she had been too long in Mycenae, but she could not remember seeing a man show such care for the happiness of a girl. And of course she understood—a good life was all she had wanted for her own sister. He couldn’t possibly know what she had sacrificed to secure it . . . and yet it felt like he did know. He knew that same love she did, that feeling of responsibility, the need to protect.
“Why didn’t you just tell the king that the girl is your sister?” she asked him. “You are her guardian. It is your right to decide where she goes and who—”
“Do you think such rules apply to kings?” he asked simply. “Do you think if I claim my rights, he will just hand her over?”
She didn’t have a reply.
“You know your husband. You know I am right,” breathed the priest, more urgently now. “I have heard much about him—I know his sort. If he had known that Leukippe was my sister, he would have known I was acting out of personal concern and not simply as a representative of the temple. He will never put another man’s desire above his own, but I thought . . . I thought that he might heed the will of the gods. He may yet.”
“I suppose . . . what you say makes sense. And I think perhaps you were right not to tell him,” she said with a small sigh. “My husband has a strong will. Once he decides he wants something . . .”
“You must swear that you will not tell your husband that Leukippe is my sister. Please. If you do, I fear I will never get her back.”
Klytemnestra hesitated. Could she really keep a truth from her husband? She might even have to lie to him . . . In over four years of marriage, she had never done that. Was she being disloyal, even in talking to this man behind Agamemnon’s back? But then Leukippe’s face surfaced in her mind. What about her husband’s loyalty, to his wife? And that poor girl, taken from her home. Who knew what she was suffering? The thought of keeping something from Agamemnon made her anxious, and yet behind that she felt a quiet thrill knocking somewhere in the depths of her chest. The thought that some part of her could exist beyond the bounds of their marriage, that she could have secrets just as he did—there was a strange power in it.
“I promise I will not tell him.”
“No, I need you to swear it,” whispered Kalchas, looking into her eyes so intensely that she could not look away.
“I . . . I swear it. By the gods,” she said seriously.
“Swear by your children. By their lives,” he said, grasping the hem of her skirt imploringly.
“My children?” she breathed, leaning away from him. “No, I—”
“If you mean it, why do you hesitate? Please. Then I will know you mean to keep your word.”
“I . . . very well,” she said, swallowing uncomfortably. “I swear by the gods, by the lives of my children, that I will keep your secret, that I will not tell my husband of your true connection with Leukippe.”
“Good,” he sighed, relaxing his grasp on her skirt. “Thank you, my lady. I knew I could trust you.”
It felt like there was a clod of earth in Klytemnestra’s throat. How could she have spoken such words? But then, if she meant to keep her promise, what was the harm? And if the girl could be returned home, if she could have her husband back . . .
“What do you want me to do?” she asked. “How can I return your sister to you?”
“First I want you to speak with your husband. See if you can succeed where I have failed.”
“I have already raised the matter with him,” she said quiet
ly, pained by the memory of that conversation. “He did not heed me.”
Kalchas frowned and seemed to deflate a little.
“I was afraid you might say that,” he muttered. “In that case, I have another plan.”
Klytemnestra looked at him. The intensity in his eyes was back, and when he spoke his voice was low and serious.
“I want you to help her escape.”
CHAPTER 17
KLYTEMNESTRA
It was late. The sun had been set for over an hour and the chamber was lit only by a few flickering lamps. Klytemnestra sat alone, pulling nervously at the skin around her fingernails. Thankfully, the girls were both asleep. All she had to do now was wait for Eudora to return.
She had had doubts about involving her handmaid. If they were discovered, if Agamemnon found out . . . the risk was higher for a slave. But Eudora was the only person she trusted absolutely, and Klytemnestra didn’t feel like she could do this alone. Just to have someone to confide in had been a help. And she had only asked her to do this one thing for her. The real task would be down to Klytemnestra herself.
In the quiet of the evening she could make out the distant sound of revelry. Agamemnon was hosting a feast for his military commanders and best soldiers. It had been going on for an hour or so and they had likely eaten by now, but she knew the drinking would continue for at least a couple of hours more—it always did. The feast had been planned for weeks, and it had been Kalchas’s idea to use the opportunity. They might not get another for some time.
Klytemnestra was feeling the pressure. She couldn’t back out now—the wheels had already been set in motion. But now that it was really happening, now that she was really doing it, acting against her husband, she felt sick. What kind of a wife was she?
A wife who wants her husband back, came a small voice in her head. She knew it was selfish to think of her own happiness when so many others were at stake, and yet the thought that her rebellion tonight might in fact help to mend her marriage was one of the only things keeping her calm. She was doing what was best for them all, wasn’t she? And not least for Leukippe. She could well imagine what that poor girl was suffering, away from her family, afraid and alone. She saw a part of herself in the girl, remembering what it had been like when she had first arrived here in the palace, but for her it was different. She had a marriage, and legitimate children. Agamemnon had taken that from Leukippe. He had stolen something that didn’t belong to him, and it was up to Klytemnestra to give it back. If she would not help the girl, who would?
And yet she knew that in betraying her husband, she was going against her duty. Her father had always spoken of the importance of duty, how we all had a role in life, how we must do what was expected of us. He talked of duty as if it were something sacred.
Was it sacrilege, what she was planning to do tonight? Was it sacrilege to even think about it? To sit here anticipating it?
But then a different memory surfaced. As she sat in the Hearth Hall with her father, a man had been brought in by the guards, caught trying to steal some grain from the palace store. Father had listened to the man’s story—his family was starving, their village had suffered a failed crop. And then her father had let him go. He had ordered that grain subsidies be sent to the village, and that the man be allowed to take what he could carry with him, to feed his family until the supplies arrived.
Klytemnestra had been confused. Hadn’t her father always told her that we must do our duty? Hadn’t he said that it was a king’s duty to uphold the laws? To punish those who broke them?
Her father had smiled. “How can I punish a man for trying to help his family? Perhaps I would have done the same if I were him.”
But her little frown of doubt had remained, so he had taken her chin in his hand and spoken in that soft voice he used when he was trying to teach her something.
“Sometimes we must be led by duty, and sometimes by what is right,” he had said. “The trick is to know when these things are the same, and when they are not.”
A soft tap at the door made her father’s smiling face disappear, and she was brought back to the present. A second later Eudora entered, and behind her the pale, frightened face of Leukippe.
Her handmaid’s part had gone smoothly then, at least. Klytemnestra had asked her to go and fetch the girl from the chamber where Agamemnon kept her. It would have looked too suspicious if anyone had seen the queen herself calling on the king’s concubine.
She ushered in the two women and Eudora closed the door softly behind them. Suddenly Leukippe was on her knees.
“I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean you any harm. I know you must hate me, but please . . . please don’t hurt me.” Tears were running down her terrified face and her arms were raised in supplication.
“Hush, hush!” hissed Klytemnestra. “Someone will hear you!” She turned to Eudora. “You didn’t explain?”
“No, mistress. I thought you had better.”
Klytemnestra sighed and put a hand on Leukippe’s shaking shoulder. “I didn’t bring you here to hurt you,” she said. “I brought you here to help you.”
Leukippe’s eyes went from wide fear to narrow confusion.
“Your brother, Kalchas, came to me,” Klytemnestra continued, straightening up. “He asked me to get you out of the palace and that is what I’m going to do. He should be waiting outside the citadel gate right now.”
“Kalchas?” breathed the girl. “I knew he wouldn’t abandon me. I knew he’d come! I just didn’t expect . . .” She looked up at Klytemnestra, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry for the hurt I must have caused you, my lady.”
Klytemnestra hesitated, looking down into those wide, glistening eyes. Yes, she had been hurt, but not by this girl. She pushed aside the feelings of jealousy that had been squirming inside her these last months, that sickening pang that arose each time she imagined her husband’s hands roving over soft white flesh that wasn’t her own.
“None of this is your fault, Leukippe.” She spoke softly and tried to smile, putting out a hand to raise the girl from the floor. “Now, before we leave this chamber we must change our clothes. No one will pay attention to us if we look like slaves,” she explained, handing a bundle of plain cloth to Leukippe. “That’s the hope, anyway.”
The two women took off their fine clothes, Klytemnestra helped by Eudora as usual, and began to put on their new outfits. Klytemnestra, thanks to her helper, was ahead of Leukippe, and as Eudora was adjusting her shift she could not help but look over at the younger girl, who was still uncovered.
She didn’t know what she was expecting to see. Some radiant, undeniable quality. Some reason why her husband’s eye had wandered to this body over her own. But all she saw was a skinny, shivering girl. Deep down she knew that the girl’s appeal lay in her novelty, the allure of variety, and yet she could not help making comparisons. Leukippe’s breasts were smaller than hers, and her hips narrower. Though she did have the advantage of not having borne two children—the skin of her belly was still smooth and unlined.
And then she saw it. A small swelling in Leukippe’s lower belly. Barely noticeable, unless you knew what you were looking at.
“When was the last time you bled?” Klytemnestra asked, a bitter taste seeping into her mouth.
Leukippe realized she was looking at her and tried to cover herself with the cloth she had been in the middle of unfolding.
“N-not since before I came here,” said the girl.
Klytemnestra and Eudora shared a worried glance.
“I know it should have come by now, but sometimes it’s late—it’s happened before. I . . . I thought if I just waited . . .”
She looked scared now. Klytemnestra saw her lip begin to tremble.
“It’s all right,” she said softly. “Don’t worry about that now. Just put your clothes on. We need to go.”
Once they were bo
th dressed and their hair undone and wrapped up on their heads with rags, they left the chamber as quietly as possible, Eudora staying behind with the children.
They each carried a basket full of cloth under their arms, so as to look as if they were simply on an errand. With their heads bowed, they set out through the palace.
As Klytemnestra had hoped, they did not come across many people as they scurried through the corridors. It was too late for the actual servants to be bustling around, and those who were still up were likely busy attending the guests at the feast.
They soon reached the front courtyard. Almost out of the palace, thought Klytemnestra. But as they broke out into the moonlight a voice called out to them, and a guard emerged from the doorway they were headed for.
“Evening, ladies,” said the man, sauntering toward them, his hand resting lazily on the scabbard at his hip. “Bit late for a stroll, isn’t it?”
Klytemnestra froze, her heart pounding in her chest. When he was a few paces away from them she tilted her basket toward him, her head still bowed, and muttered something about laundry.
“At this hour? They do work you hard, don’t they?” He stopped in front of them and seemed to be looking them up and down. “All right, then,” he said eventually. “Mind how you go. You never know who you’ll meet out there at this time of night.” A low chuckle bubbled from his throat as he stepped aside to let them past. Leukippe went first, and Klytemnestra quickly followed. But as she passed the man she felt his hand touch her lower back, and before she had chance to turn around it had slid lower down.
She spun around, shocked by the intrusion. She scowled, but he just grinned back. She opened her mouth to say How dare you? but stopped herself just in time. She was supposed to be a slave—she must act like one. He was a free man, and no doubt used to taking such liberties. And so she closed her mouth and hurried after Leukippe, telling herself she should be thankful it hadn’t been worse.
They had reached the main porch now; she could see the moon through the huge front door of the palace. They had made it out. Now just to reach the outer gate and hope they would be let through. Gripping her basket she marched through the doorway, trying to look calm, like she was supposed to be there, and she and Leukippe began to make their way down the Great Stairs to the street below.
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