Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

  “I know what I vowed,” she growled bitterly back at him. And, turning before another tear could fall, she hurried from the tent.

  CHAPTER 39

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  Klytemnestra marched back through the camp, her chest heaving with short, strangled breaths. Panic had set in now. Their only option was to run. She had wasted so much time already. She had to get back to her daughter. They had to leave.

  Her mud-soaked skirts dragged at her shaking legs. She gathered the wool in her hands and widened her strides. Almost there now. She could see their tent. Just a few more strides.

  She whipped the tent door aside and hurried in. “I’m back, my darling. Are you r—”

  But it was not her daughter who stood before her.

  “Husband,” she choked, taking a step backward. “I—I did not expect you so late.” She peered around him. “Where is Iphigenia?”

  “I have sent our daughter to sleep in my tent. I thought she might be safer there.”

  He knew. She could tell from his tone, the dark look in his eye. Someone must have seen her.

  She could not see Alkimos. Had he been here when Agamemnon had come? He must have been. Or maybe he slipped away . . .

  Then she saw it. What she had taken for a pile of cloth, near Iphigenia’s bed. Except it was moving. And whimpering.

  Guilt stabbed her gut. She should have just left when he had told her to. If she had . . . Oh, poor Alkimos. And Iphigenia . . .

  “You can’t do this,” she said quietly. “Please, husband. She is our daughter.”

  “The ships must sail.”

  “Why? Why must they? When the price is so high? We could just go home. It is not too late.” She was trying to appeal to his eyes, to his heart, but he would not look at her. She touched his sleeve. “Husband—”

  “You understand nothing,” he snapped, pulling his arm away. “How can a woman know what it is to be a man? What a man must do? What a man must be? You speak of what you do not know.”

  “I know what it is to be a mother. To bear a child—your child. To birth her. To nurse her at my breast. To be terrified that the summer sickness will take her, to dread the winter chill. To raise her to be good and kind and strong. To cherish her each day. I know that.”

  He made a dismissive sound. “You blame me for this when it is your sister’s doing. You hate me for her wrong. We sail to bring her back, or had you forgotten? Would you have me abandon her to the foreigners? A whore bitch to some Eastern dog?”

  His words stung, and made her pause. Amid all her fear for Iphigenia, she had almost forgotten about Helen.

  “My sister would never have wanted . . .” she murmured. Then, louder, “Our daughter does not need to die. The winds will come!”

  “Foolish woman. The slave said he had told you of the prophecy. Do you doubt the gods?”

  “Only their messenger,” she replied, looking steadily into his eyes. “The seer cannot be trusted. He—”

  “You are grasping at the wind,” her husband barked. “You have had it against my seer since before the campaign began. I do not know what he has done to offend you but—”

  “It is what you have done,” she snapped back at him. “Do you not remember? The girl and the child and . . . How can you be so blind?”

  There was a crack of skin on skin as his hand met her face. She reeled, cradling her searing cheek.

  “You forget yourself.” His voice rumbled like a storm above her. “It is not the place of a queen to question a king’s judgment. You are lucky I do not beat you for the way you dishonored me tonight.” She glanced at the pile of cloth that was Alkimos, no longer moving. “But I pitied you, for what must be done. Do not test my patience.”

  Slowly, cheek still throbbing, she straightened herself up and looked him in the eye once again.

  “Kalchas is lying,” she croaked, willing him with her eyes to see that she was right, to see what she knew.

  “I believe him,” said her husband gruffly. “He has been right before. It would be foolish not to heed him.” Her eyes became more desperate, blurring as tears brimmed at their edges. “And even if I do not believe him,” he continued, “the men do. They have heard the prophecy. They know what it is I must do, and what it means if I do not. I have promised them glory. Their blood runs hot for it . . . You must realize that if I do not do this thing, they may do it instead. And perhaps they would not stop with Iphigenia. We would lose everything and gain nothing.”

  “You mean you. You would gain nothing.” She was surprised by the contempt in her voice. She was shaking now, with anger, with pain. But it made her bold. She braced herself for another strike, but none came. Agamemnon just looked at her with those gray eyes, as if for him the discussion were already over. Her heart was beating in her throat, her legs trembling beneath her. He was trying to scare her, to make her give in. But she would not be cowed. This was her daughter’s life. Her Iphigenia. A part of her knew she should be silent, but she had come so far already. She could not let him leave, knowing what it would mean if he did. She had to fight.

  “Is it because she is only a girl that you are so willing to throw her life away? If I ever harmed Orestes you would never forgive me.”

  “What did you say?” He stepped toward her and seemed to grow taller, his shoulders bristling. “Don’t you dare threaten my son.”

  She stepped back. “I—I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I only meant that—”

  “I’m doing this for him, don’t you see?” There was a terrifying energy in his body, a queer light in his eyes. “All of this! To show him that his father is a great man, as my father was. So that he can be proud to be called the son of Agamemnon. To give him a legacy!”

  “And what about Iphigenia’s legacy?” she shot back, anger overtaking fear once more. “What marriage will she make? What children will she bear? What will her legacy be?”

  He looked at her evenly. “Her legacy will be Greece’s glory. Her blood the blood that launched a hundred ships. The savior of Greece, they will call her—what greater legacy could she hope for?”

  His eyes sparkled with the grandeur of it, as if he were convinced by his own words. It made Klytemnestra feel sick and she stepped back from him, against the wall of the tent, her tongue paralyzed in her mouth. In that moment she realized she would not convince him. That dreadful look on his face . . . He was so enamored by the glory of it all—of the campaign, of Troy, of his own great legacy—that he couldn’t see the terrible reality, the beautiful, flesh-and-blood daughter whom he talked so easily of destroying. Dazzled by the dream of conquest, he was blind to all else.

  He might try to blame Helen, or the gods, or the army; he might try to claim he was doing it for the sake of his family, for the sake of Greece even, but he knew and she knew that he could stop it all if he wanted to. He alone had chosen this path.

  “Iphigenia will remain in my tent tonight, and you will return to Mycenae at dawn.”

  His voice sounded muffled in her ears, as if he were far away, but she realized what he had said—and what it meant.

  “No,” she croaked. “I won’t leave.” I won’t make it easy for you, she said to herself. “If you must kill our daughter, you will do so with me there.” She glared at him, her eyes hard, daring him to challenge her.

  “Very well,” he said. “Though I warn you not to interfere.”

  She forced her head to nod.

  “Let me be with her in the morning,” she said suddenly. “Let me . . . prepare her. As if for her wedding.” When he looked skeptical, she continued. “It will be what she expects. I think it best if she does not know,” she continued, her voice shaking. “Please, husband. Let her last hours be happy ones.”

  “Very well,” he agreed. “I will have you watched, though.”

  She nodded stiffly once again. It was as much of a concession as she
could hope for.

  He turned to leave but stopped as his eyes stuck upon the crumpled pile of cloth. Klytemnestra followed his gaze, watching for some small shift in the fabric to show her that Alkimos was still breathing. All was still.

  “I will send Talthybios to get rid of that,” Agamemnon said curtly. “Then I suggest you get some sleep.” And with a disapproving look at her soiled skirts, he was gone.

  * * *

  Klytemnestra was shaking. She staggered toward her travel chest and collapsed onto it, her head falling into her hands.

  She had failed. There was nothing more she could do. Her daughter was out of her reach, and tomorrow she would leave it forever. Terrible, terrified gasps heaved at her chest. Nausea rose in her throat.

  What was there left? There must be something. Some way she had overlooked. Could they get away tomorrow? Steal a horse and . . . But as soon as she thought of it she knew it was hopeless. Agamemnon would keep a tight rein now. Their chance for flight was gone. And where would they run to?

  She sobbed, bitter tears dripping onto her skirt. Wet and sorrowful and utterly useless. She was so weak, so powerless . . .

  A thought struck her.

  The gods. Why had she not thought of it? She must ask for their help. Beg for it. No, she needn’t pray to them all. She knew who would aid her.

  She stood up, wiped her tears hastily on her sleeve, and heaved at the lid of her travel chest. So many fine clothes, so many trinkets—what use were they now? She pushed them aside, plunged her arms through the soft fabrics until . . .

  There. She had found it. Carefully, she raised it from the chest, unwound the gold-threaded shawl she had wrapped it in.

  “My lady,” she sighed, cradling the small wooden figure in her hands.

  It was no larger than her forearm, and the paint had lost its luster—it was worn away entirely on the face and breasts where countless fingers before hers had rubbed. The statue had been kept at Mycenae for generations—no one could tell her exactly how old it was. Some said it had fallen from the sky, sent by the gods. Whatever its history, it was a long one. And that gave it power.

  Klytemnestra closed the chest and set the statue down gently upon its lid, a lamp beside it. She knelt down and looked at the bare wood of the face—the small bump where a nose was suggested, the carved line of the mouth. She had brought the Lady Hera with her to grant her power in the negotiations with the men, and now she needed that power more than ever.

  “Lady Hera,” she croaked, and cleared her throat. “You are a wife and a mother, as I am, so I know that you know a mother’s love. Save my daughter, O Hera of the white arms, and I will sacrifice one hundred rams at Mycenae. Stop her blood from spilling, and I will spill theirs for you. Do not let a father kill his daughter, against what is right, as your father tried to kill you. I am weak, but you are strong. By the mothers’ blood that bonds us, by all that is right, protect my daughter Iphigenia.”

  Her words stopped and the tent was silent again, as if they had never been spoken. The wooden face stared blankly.

  She had spoken from the heart, had offered sacrifice, had done all she should, and yet . . . and yet it was not enough. This was not a prayer for harvest, a petition for a safe journey. This was her daughter’s life. And it was being taken away from her, against all laws of decency, of sanctity, of justice. And by the man who should be her greatest protector. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right.

  Before she knew it she was speaking again, the words spilling like water over a cliff.

  “Lady Hera. I vow to you now, by my own life, by all that I hold dear, if my husband does this terrible thing, if—if Agamemnon kills our daughter—I vow that I will kill him in return.” She stopped, her lips faltering briefly at what they had spoken. “Do not make me a husband-killer, O Lady Hera,” she went on. “As you love your children, and as I love mine, make my husband see what is right, and stop this madness.”

  CHAPTER 40

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  It is morning, my lady.”

  The voice of Talthybios came through the canvas, telling her what she already knew. She had watched the tent lighten over the last hour, listened to the servants feeding the horses nearby, as her stomach grew heavier and heavier.

  “I am awake, Talthybios,” she called back, the words cracking in her dry throat. “You may enter.”

  The flap of the door was pulled back. She made herself sit up.

  And started.

  There by the herald’s side was her daughter. She didn’t know whether to cry with love or sorrow at the sight of that fresh face, but stopped herself short of either.

  “Lord Agamemnon thought it best if the princess was readied in your tent, mistress, since you have the travel chest.”

  “So early?” she asked. “The sun has barely risen.” Could Agamemnon not have given their daughter a few more hours in its light?

  Talthybios simply nodded.

  “He bid me attend you,” he added stiffly. “If you require any assistance you need only ask.”

  He spoke as if he were their servant, but she knew he was really their guard.

  “Thank you, Talthybios,” she said nonetheless, before turning to her daughter. “Now come, Iphigenia.” It was hard to smile, but she managed it. “We must make you a bride.”

  * * *

  Iphigenia asked about the night before, of course, but Klytemnestra swept it aside.

  “I thought we might have to leave, but I was wrong,” she lied, helping her daughter out of her bedclothes. “I’m sorry for waking you, my darling. Did you sleep well in your father’s tent?”

  Was it wrong to keep the truth from her? She might be the only soul in the whole camp who didn’t know why she was really here. And yet . . . yes, it was better that way. Why terrify her? She was smiling, content—a little nervous, perhaps, but still bright. Klytemnestra could not bear to take that from her. Not when it was all she had left.

  And perhaps she need never know. In the depths of her heart, Klytemnestra still thought that her husband would change his mind. It was that hope that kept her hands from shaking as she brushed her daughter’s golden hair and lifted her cheeks every time Iphigenia turned her head. The thought of that sweet life being snuffed out, like a lamp only just lit . . . and that terrible vow she had made last night, suffocating in the grip of desperation . . . It was too much for a living heart to bear.

  No. He would not go through with it. She convinced herself more and more as she dressed Iphigenia in the fine bridal clothes. Perhaps he could bear the idea of it, even bring himself to the brink, but when the moment came, when his loving daughter stood before him, he would not be able to do it.

  “Are you all right, Mother?”

  She realized she had been straightening her daughter’s sleeve for several minutes.

  “Yes, dear.” She forced a smile. “I was just thinking how beautiful you will look for your husband.”

  “Have you seen him?” she asked eagerly. “The lord Achilles. Is he handsome?”

  “I have not,” she replied, trying to mimic her daughter’s light tone. “But it is said he is the most handsome of all the Greeks.”

  Iphigenia repaid her false grin with a genuine one. “I hope he thinks me pretty,” she sighed.

  Klytemnestra took hold of her daughter’s shoulders. “He will think you beautiful,” she said. “Or he is a fool.”

  Iphigenia giggled, her cheeks turning pink. “Maybe once you’ve finished getting me ready.”

  Klytemnestra smiled and nodded, but as she combed Iphigenia’s already pristine hair once more, a lump grew in her throat. She wished she would never be ready, that she could comb her hair until dusk, and go home tomorrow without today ever happening.

  “I have spoken with your father,” she said as she was winding the hair on top of her daughter’s head. “And he has agreed that
you may return home after the wedding feast. So you needn’t worry about that.”

  She didn’t know what made her say it, but it seemed to make Iphigenia’s shoulders relax a little, so she was glad she did.

  “I’m glad I’ll get to tell Elektra all about it,” she chirped. “And we have to bring her back a present. I promised I would.”

  She chattered on for a while about what Elektra might like—maybe a sea pebble from the beach, or a shell if she could find one—and whether she ought to find something for Chrysothemis and Orestes too. Klytemnestra let the sweet song of her daughter’s voice wash over her as she plaited the final strands of honey-colored hair. And as she fixed the braid into position and drew her hand away it felt as if the last warmth of summer had faded.

  She tried to tell her daughter how pretty she looked, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead she turned away from her and lifted the saffron wedding veil from the travel chest. As she felt the weight of it in her hands, she was glad of its thickness. Better that Iphigenia could not see through it.

  She turned and looked at her daughter—really looked at her. She knew that this might be the last chance she would get, and didn’t want to forget anything, not a single freckle.

  “What are you waiting for, Mother? I want to see how it feels.”

  Klytemnestra smiled apologetically, and Iphigenia smiled back.

  Then, hands trembling, she lifted the thick piece of cloth and laid it over her daughter’s head, fixing it in place with a golden diadem.

  “It’s so dark!” Iphigenia exclaimed, waving her arms in front of her. “I can’t see a thing!” She giggled as she turned her head this way and that. “It seems a shame to cover up my hair, doesn’t it? When you’ve done it so prettily.”