“We’re here.”
The soldiers’ camp was large and sprawling, with temporary buildings and firepits and trodden mud paths that looked like they had been in use for some time. The smells of leather and horses and things less pleasant were a little overwhelming after the fresh air of the hills, and as the men started to take note of their passing, Klytemnestra was doubly glad of her thick veil. Drawing it across her face, and feeling guilty that she had not given Iphigenia her own veil before entering the camp, she tried to ignore the lewd comments that rose around them, the shameless stares and the nudging whispers.
She supposed they must look a little odd, two women entering a soldiers’ camp with no male company but their driver and a small rear guard. Perhaps word had not yet spread of the wedding—perhaps Agamemnon was keeping it quiet to stop other men from demanding a similar privilege to Achilles. Yes, that would be sensible. She did not think she could bear to give away another daughter. Not yet, anyway.
Even if she could understand their curiosity, Klytemnestra regretted that she had not sent one of the men ahead so that Agamemnon could meet them outside the camp and escort them through. She doubted even the boldest of the men would have dared show such disrespect if her husband had been with them.
Just then she heard a familiar sound, more bark than voice, and was surprised by how glad she was to hear it. Up ahead, the inimitable boom of her husband rose above the general din, and soon she caught sight of the dark head to which it belonged.
“Look,” she said to Iphigenia, pointing over the girl’s shoulder as she squeezed her hand. “We’re here at last.”
Iphigenia flicked her blond head around and Klytemnestra could see her cheeks lift as she beamed.
“Father!” she cried excitedly. And somehow, above the shouts and brays and clatters of the camp, he heard her and turned his head.
He did not return his daughter’s smile, but turned seriously to Talthybios who was hovering, as so often, beside his elbow. Klytemnestra saw her husband’s lips mutter a command, and the herald scurried off, likely to make preparations for their stay. But even once Talthybios had gone, Agamemnon did not return his eyes to their wagon.
It was only as they drew to a stop beside him that her husband acknowledged their arrival.
“I did not ask you to come,” he said, his hard gray eyes on Klytemnestra. “You should not have come.”
Klytemnestra opened her mouth uselessly. She didn’t know what to say. It was not the welcome she had expected after their long journey, and she felt a little bruised by it.
“Father!” cried Iphigenia for a second time, as she hopped from the wagon and threw her arms around him. “I’m so happy to see you, Father!” she chirped, burying her golden head into his broad midriff.
He stood stiffly, like a tree resisting the caress of the wind, and though he half raised a hand as if to pat his daughter’s head, it hung in the air as he hesitated. Instead, he put both hands on her narrow shoulders and pried her gently away from him, forcing a half smile as she looked up.
“I’m glad you have arrived safely,” was all he said before turning back to Klytemnestra, who had by now descended from the wagon.
“You should not have come,” he said again. There was a deep crease in his brow. “The camp is no place for a woman. You undermine me by being here. And what of our son? You have abandoned him—what will the men think? To see my wife here while my son is left at home. You dishonor me.”
The last words bit like teeth, and Klytemnestra was sure he had said them just to hurt her. Why was he acting this way? If the camp was no place for a woman, why had he called for Iphigenia? Had he really expected her to send their daughter alone? She had tried to do right, by him and by her children, but under that stony glare she was beginning to doubt herself.
“I know you did not ask me to come, but neither did you forbid it. I thought—”
“Enough.” His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, which somehow made it more menacing. “You will leave tomorrow morning. The hour is too late now.”
“But I will miss the rites!” she pleaded. “Might I not stay for the wedding, now that I have come all this way? Our daughter does not even have a maid to dress her!”
Iphigenia was looking between her parents, her young eyes pleading her mother’s case.
“No. It is not possible. You cannot be here. I am sorry.”
His concession of an apology disarmed her, and she was silent for a moment, staring up into those gray eyes, trying to read something there, some hope that he would change his mind. But she found none.
“Very well,” she said stiffly, not able to meet her daughter’s gaze, and the disappointment, or worse, that she might see there. She had promised her, promised her she would be there with her. “I will leave tomorrow morning,” she conceded, “but first I must speak with you concerning the arrangements for after the wedding. Please, husband. I hoped that—”
“Yes, yes. Very well. I will speak with you before you leave in the morning. I have things I must attend to now.”
She would have preferred to speak with him sooner, to reassure both herself and Iphigenia, but fearing to lose what little ground she had gained she simply said, “Thank you, husband.”
He nodded. “A tent has been prepared for Iphigenia. You may both sleep there. Talthybios will show you the way—here he comes.” And before his herald had even reached them, he was gone.
As they stood in the mud, watching those broad shoulders disappear down one of many well-trodden paths, Klytemnestra weathered her hurt in silence, with her hand wrapped tightly around that of her daughter. She had thought that Agamemnon would be pleased to see her. It had been a whole month since they had parted, and the gods knew how many more it would be until they saw each other again. Perhaps they never would. Maybe she had been wrong to come, but she was here now, and yet he did not even want her to share his tent.
You’re being silly, she said to herself. Like a little girl. She wasn’t a girl anymore, or even just a woman. She was a queen, and she had to remember that. She was married to a king, and not just any king, but the commander of all Greece. At the moment that duty came before being a husband, or even a father.
CHAPTER 37
KLYTEMNESTRA
Klytemnestra struggled to get to sleep that night. The men of the camp stayed up long after the sun had set, drinking and dicing around their fires, their voices carrying through the thick canvas of the tent. It was not they who kept her awake, however. Her brain buzzed with uncertainties. What if she could not convince Agamemnon? Could she really leave Iphigenia to get married alone, to be sent away to some foreign kingdom? Could she refuse to leave? Defy her husband? That would not be wise, but poor Iphigenia . . .
She could hear her daughter’s slow, shallow breaths at the other end of the tent. At least one of them was able to sleep, though Klytemnestra did not know how she could. Perhaps she had faith in her father, that he would not send her to waste her youth in lonely redundance. Or trust that her mother would not let it happen. Klytemnestra wished she could have the same faith.
* * *
She must have fallen asleep eventually, for when Klytemnestra next opened her eyes the voices of the camp had fallen silent and the faint light of its fires had vanished.
But wait. No, there was a light still. Just one, quite close by her side of the tent. And getting closer.
She barely had chance to raise her head from her pillow before the tent door was suddenly raised, and the moving light shone through.
“Husband?” she whispered. No, the figure behind the lamp was too short. But if it was not Agamemnon . . .
The light moved toward her. She opened her mouth to call for help, but as she did the figure lifted its hood and a familiar face emerged.
“Alkimos?” she whispered in amazement. “Is that really you?” She thought perhaps she migh
t still be dreaming. Here before her was a man she had not seen since childhood. A slave of her father’s, who used to make her giggle by pulling funny faces when her mother wasn’t looking. He was older now, of course, but he still looked strong and healthy. The sight of him made her feel suddenly homesick.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Iphigenia. “In the camp, I mean?”
“I am here attending the king, my lady,” he whispered back.
But Father is dead was her first thought, before realizing that he meant Menelaos. It had been a silly question—she was still only half awake.
“Yes, yes, of course you are,” she replied, looking up at that dark, lamp-lit face. “It’s so good to see you,” she said, and meant it.
“I am glad to see you once again too, my lady. But I have come on a matter of great urgency.”
His face held none of the playful smiles she remembered. Instead it was grim, his body agitated. Klytemnestra straightened herself, suddenly wide awake.
“You and your daughter must leave,” he whispered. “Before sunrise. Leave your things, take a horse and get as far as you can before he knows you are gone. You still remember how to ride?”
Klytemnestra nodded vaguely, perplexed by what he was saying. “Before who knows we are gone?”
“Lord Agamemnon,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder as if speaking her husband’s name might summon him.
“But . . . I don’t understand.”
“There’s no time, my lady. You’ll find a horse outside the tent. The guards shouldn’t bother you but—”
“No,” she said, more certainly this time. “I will not take my daughter into the wilderness in the middle of the night without knowing why!”
Alkimos looked at her, then briefly over to the bed where Iphigenia lay. Her daughter was still sleeping soundly.
“It isn’t safe. For her,” he murmured, his eyes flicking to Iphigenia once again. “Your husband means her harm.”
“What harm? Do you mean the marriage? Is Achilles a cruel man?”
“No, no, my lady. You don’t understand. There is no marriage.”
She was even more confused now.
“What do you mean, no marriage? Why else would he have brought her here? It doesn’t make any sense—”
“It was a lie— All a lie— I . . .” He paused. “May the gods forgive us all, my lady. He brought her here to kill her.”
Klytemnestra had heard people speak of blood running cold, but never before had she understood what they meant.
“No,” she uttered. “You’re lying. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t.”
“It is true, my lady. I had hoped to spare you this, but you wouldn’t listen, and I couldn’t—You have to leave. Now.”
But his words just sounded like rushing water in Klytemnestra’s ears.
“But why?” she asked. “Why would he . . . he loves her. I don’t—”
“There was a prophecy. The winds have been ill for so long . . . Lord Agamemnon asked his seer why the gods were preventing our crossing—”
“His seer?” asked Klytemnestra suddenly.
“Yes, my lady. The seer told him that he had killed a hind sacred to Artemis, that he had angered the goddess. He said the princess was the sacrifice the gods demanded. That the ships can’t sail until—”
But Klytemnestra was no longer listening. She had sprung from her bed and hurried over to where Iphigenia lay.
“Hmm?” What is it, Mother?” her daughter said groggily as Klytemnestra shook her shoulder. Then, seeing her mother’s face, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “You’re safe. Everything is fine. But I need you to get dressed. Put on your traveling clothes.”
Iphigenia looked at her questioningly, and then her eyes widened as she spotted the man behind her. “Who’s that?”
“A friend,” she whispered. “He’ll stay with you until I return. Don’t worry—he won’t look.”
“But—where are you going?”
“Not far. I’ll be back soon. Now do as I say, there’s a good girl.” She leaned down to kiss her daughter’s forehead, and could not resist a quick embrace.
“I love you very much,” she whispered, trying desperately to keep the fear from her voice.
Then, straightening up, she turned to Alkimos. “Which way to the seer’s tent?”
CHAPTER 38
KLYTEMNESTRA
Klytemnestra’s bedclothes dragged in the mud as she marched through the camp. There was no time to change—she had not even put on sandals in her hurry. Stones jabbed at the soles of her feet but she barely noticed. All she saw was the tent ahead of her, its holy ribbons fluttering in the moonlight, just as Alkimos had described.
Anger was swilling in her mouth. How could he? How could he? Iphigenia . . . her Iphigenia . . . She had to speak with him. Even if they fled her daughter would not be safe. She had to set it right.
The tent was just a few paces away now. She was gripping the lamp so tightly that her hand was shaking. How could he?
She flung the tent door open and stepped inside. She glanced around the room, and in the lamplight made out a bed, a blanket, and the sleeper beneath it. He was alone.
“Gods curse you, Kalchas!” she growled, pulling the blanket back. “Gods curse you! How could you? My Iphigenia . . . what harm did she ever do you?”
She had been determined not to cry, but already the tears were welling. It was a strain to keep her voice from cracking.
Kalchas sat up in his bed, looking calmly up at her.
“Lady Klytemnestra,” he said evenly, as if it were perfectly ordinary that she should have come to him like this in the middle of the night. “Is there something I can do for you?”
His calmness infuriated her.
“You know very well why I am here, Kalchas,” she spat. “You know what you have done. My Iphigenia . . . why? I tried to help you! You and Leukippe . . . I . . . I betrayed my husband for you, I—”
“The gods demand what they demand, my lady. I only read the signs—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me,” she hissed. “I am not so blind as my husband!” She stopped to gather herself, realizing she had raised her voice. “You must take it back, Kalchas. You have to tell him it’s not true. Gods know why you would say such a thing in the first place.”
“You know why.” His eyes were on her, steady and hard like rock.
“So you would avenge one innocent life by taking another?”
“I . . .” He paused, his eyes wavering a little. He gave the smallest sigh. “In truth, I did not think he would go through with it. I thought, if I . . . if the gods demanded the unimaginable, that he would be forced to give up. That his campaign would be ruined, his reputation with it. I thought he would be humiliated, and go home.”
“But . . . surely the men would not expect him to sacrifice his own child? He could have just said no. They would not have blamed him.”
“Would they not?” Kalchas looked up at her again. “These men, who have sacrificed so much of their own to fight for him? To fight for Greece? They have left their kingdoms vulnerable, their sons without fathers, their fathers without sons. Many of them will likely give their lives. And yet he, their leader, their summoner to arms, not willing to sacrifice one child? And a daughter, not even an heir? He would have been shamed.”
Klytemnestra’s mouth hung open, but she didn’t know what to say.
“I thought he would take the shame,” Kalchas continued. “That would have been enough, to see him fall from so high. I could have moved on. But I . . . underestimated him. His pride, his vanity. His ambition. He has made Troy his goal. It is as if a fever has infected his mind.” His tone was of disgust. “All he sees is Troy, and his fist around it. He will stop at nothing, I see that now.”<
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“But it isn’t true!” said Klytemnestra desperately. “He doesn’t need to make the sacrifice at all! The gods do not demand it, only you! You can tell him that you lied, or that you were mistaken, or that the gods have sent a new augury! The winds will come, and the ships will sail and—and I will still have my daughter.” Her final word was almost a sob.
“I’m afraid I cannot,” said Kalchas, his tone even once again.
Klytemnestra looked at him sharply. “But you must! You’re the only one who can stop this madness!” She paused, her eyes frantically searching his. “You are a good man, Kalchas, or you were once. You loved your sister, you know what it is to lose someone you love. I know how much it hurt you . . . How much he hurt you, and I am sorry for it. But killing Iphigenia will not bring Leukippe back!”
She knelt on the floor and pleaded, grasped his bedcovers and poured her breaking heart out through the tears that rolled down her cheeks. But his eyes stared dully back at her, like stone once more.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “Do not think it gives me pleasure. No, indeed, I—I hardly feel anything anymore.” He made a hollow sound, like a laugh without the breath to carry it. “Your husband is an evil man, and he must suffer. I have that opportunity now and I will not lose it, no matter the cost. I cannot do as you ask. I will not give him that escape.”
Klytemnestra was paralyzed. What more could she say? What more could she do? She stared at him, looking for something, anything, some way to make him change his mind, some opening in the rock face. But those hard eyes stared back at her and she knew there was nothing. She was just wasting time.
She rose to her feet and turned to leave, but halfway to the door the priest’s voice made her stop.
“You can hate me, if that makes it easier. I know you do. But it is your husband who has led us down this path, and keeps us here.” She shook her head and took another step, but stopped again as he continued. “You may try to convince him—by all means, try. Tell him to turn around and go home. You may succeed where his brother has failed. Perhaps you have that influence.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “But remember the oath you made to me. You vowed by the lives of your children that you would not tell your husband of my relation to Leukippe. Do not risk the children you have for the chance to save one already lost.”
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