She smiled weakly and nodded in reply, gratitude swelling within her. As she walked away the noise of the hall began to resume, but through the hum Helen thought she heard the admonishing tone of Andromache behind her. She turned her head just in time to read Hektor’s lips as he leaned toward his wife and said, “Hush now, it’s not her fault. She’s just a foolish girl.”
Those words echoed in Helen’s head for the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER 45
KLYTEMNESTRA
Klytemnestra sat alone in the Hearth Hall, sipping unwatered wine. She had needed something to settle her nerves before going to bed, and so she had come to the hall to drink and to think and to be alone.
The previous day a rumor had reached Mycenae that King Agamemnon had been slain in a skirmish at Troy.
“We will pay no heed to rumor,” Klytemnestra told her staff, and yet inwardly her heart had risen with a strange hope. Could it be true? Was her husband really dead? She saw his still body laid out on the Trojan plain, and it was as if a boulder had been lifted from her chest. Relief, cold and hot at once, had spread through her. Would she really not have to face him?
But then today, just an hour ago, a messenger had arrived from the Troad, requesting fresh supplies and affirming that the king was indeed alive and well. And Klytemnestra’s infant hope had died almost as soon as it had been born.
As the war lengthened, the question inside her grew. What would she do when her husband returned? She had made a vow to the goddess, and she had meant it. She had held the dagger in her hand. Blood for blood. And yet . . . she had been half-mad with grief, hadn’t she? Could she still do it, when the time came?
But the alternative . . . How could she face him? How could she look upon him each day, serve him as his wife, share his bed? She visited Iphigenia’s tomb every day, and would continue to do so for the rest of her life. She had failed her in life; she would not abandon her in death. But how could she mourn the daughter she had lost while playing wife to the man who had ordered her death? Who had weighed her gentle life against his own hard ambition? The man whose very name made her heart clench? It was an insult to Iphigenia’s memory. It was unthinkable. It was unbearable. It was . . . it was—
Suddenly there was a crack. The thin stem of the wine cup had snapped in her hand, spilling wine over her skirt. It was only then that she realized how tightly she had been gripping it.
She sighed, watching vacantly as the dark wine soaked into her fine clothes. It may never come to that, she said to herself. This time the rumor had been wrong, but it hadn’t been the first, and would not be the last. As wicked and cowardly as it made her feel, the best she could do was to hope that one day the news of her husband’s death would be true. That he would die far away on that foreign shore, and the terrible choice would be taken from her.
She was about to stand and leave the hall when one of the heavy doors creaked open, and Damon’s face appeared.
“My lady,” he called across the hall. “Our guest requests to share your hearth. Should I admit him?”
Klytemnestra was about to say no, but changed her mind. The guest had been here two nights already and she had not yet entertained him. What would people say of Mycenaean hospitality? And besides, his company would be a welcome distraction.
“Yes, yes,” she called to Damon. “Tell him he is welcome to share my hearth. And have the slaves bring more wine. And some fruit, if you would.”
“Of course, my lady,” Damon replied, and his head disappeared once more.
Moments later, another appeared in its place, and then a whole man, stepping humbly into the light of the hearth fire.
“You have my thanks, my lady,” he said with a bow. “For granting me the pleasure of your company. I know you must be busy.”
“It is only proper,” she said with a smile, gesturing him toward the seat beside her. “You are our guest, after all.”
The man was taller than average, but otherwise unremarkable in appearance. His skin was weathered, though he still had a youthful energy, a kind of robust vigor, as you saw in farmers and the like—lean but strong. He was younger than her husband but older than herself, she estimated. And the eyes that stared out from his tanned face held a kind light.
When he had first arrived at the palace he had worn a thin traveler’s cloak and tough, simply made boots. If it were not for his refined manner of speaking and the dignified confidence with which he carried his wiry frame, she would have doubted that he was of noble blood at all. Now, seated beside her in a fine tunic, with hair washed and skin perfumed with cardamom, he was like a new man.
Damon had followed the man in and was sitting near the doors. Even though she was the ruling Queen of Mycenae, it would be improper for her to be alone with a male guest—especially after what had happened with her sister. Still, she could not help but be a little insulted that the steward did not trust her.
“I hope your stay has been comfortable so far,” she said, pouring a cup of wine for her guest. “Have you been well attended?”
“Oh yes, my lady, very well,” he replied, taking the cup from her. “Though I am glad to finally meet my host—properly, I mean.”
“Yes, I must apologize for not entertaining you sooner. Indeed, I have forgotten your name, so much time has passed since our first brief meeting.”
“You can be forgiven, my lady, for I don’t believe I gave it.” He gave a gracious smile, his eyes watching hers. “Aigisthos is what my noble father named me.”
“Aigisthos,” she repeated, rolling the sound of it around on her tongue. “Quite unusual, is it not? And yet I feel I may have heard it before.”
“Of course you need not remind me of your name,” said Aigisthos, cradling his wine cup. “Your noble reputation is known even by those who live as far away as I, Queen Klytemnestra.”
She smiled. “And where exactly is it that you live, Lord Aigisthos?”
“Oh, here and there,” he said with a playful smile. “But my family has ancient ties with Mycenae. Such an interesting place, is it not? Such a rich history.”
Klytemnestra nodded politely. “Yes, I suppose it is. Though I confess I do not know much of its history, not having been born here myself.”
“Mmm,” Aigisthos replied, popping a grape into his mouth. “No, I suppose not.” He picked another from the stem and rolled it in his fingers before turning his eyes back to her. “Did your husband ever tell you the story of how he came to be King of Mycenae?” he asked.
“Well, yes, I know that my father helped him to overthrow the previous king—that’s how I came to marry Lord Agamemnon, you see—but . . . now that I think of it, that is all I know. My husband . . . well, he isn’t really one for stories.” She smiled weakly, trying to hide her unease at the mention of Agamemnon.
“Perhaps you will allow me to tell the rest,” said Aigisthos, leaning toward her slightly. “It is quite the tale, if you would like to hear it.” He smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes.
Though Klytemnestra was not keen to hear tales of her husband, she was curious. What kind of queen did not know the history of her own kingdom?
“Go on,” she said, picking up her wine cup. “I’m listening.”
Aigisthos shifted his weight a little, cleared his throat, and began.
“Well, as with so many stories, it all began with two brothers. One was named Thyestes, and the other, the younger, was named Atreus.” Klytemnestra opened her mouth to interject but was beaten to it.
“Yes, you may well know that name, for Atreus was your noble husband’s father. Well, the two brothers were sons of the great king Pelops, but were exiled from their native kingdom when, in their desire for the throne, they plotted to murder their half brother. Deprived of their kingdom, the brothers wandered all Greece until finally they found welcome at the hearth of Mycenae. For King Eurystheus, who ruled this land
all those years ago, had fathered no sons, and feared for the security of his kingdom.
“The brothers spent their youth happily in Mycenae for two summers, and might have continued to do so if it had not been for the caprice of the Fates. For before King Eurytheus could choose which of the two was to be his heir, he died.
“Thyestes and Atreus, good friends and brothers as they were, ruled the kingdom together for a time. But, though Thyestes had more claim as the elder brother and had proven himself a fine ruler, Atreus was the more ambitious. He feared the people would favor his brother over him and began to hold audiences without Thyestes, and to take measures to diminish his brother’s power.
“And perhaps Atreus would have been content with his larger share of the throne. But one of his spies, whom he had appointed to watch his brother for fear that he would be usurped, revealed to Atreus that they had seen his own wife, Aerope, visiting Thyestes’s chambers on several occasions—alone.
“Burning with jealousy, Atreus confronted his wife and, fearing her husband’s rage, she told him everything. She begged him not to harm Thyestes—for she truly loved him—and to send him away instead. But Atreus had other plans.
“He invited Thyestes to feast with him, playing the loving brother as he plied him with wine and delicious stewed meat. It was only once his brother’s belly was full that Atreus revealed the evil he had done. Asking Thyestes if he had enjoyed his meal, he had a platter brought into the hall—this very hall where we sit now—and on it were the heads and hands of Thyestes’s young sons. And he knew then what his brother had done, and what he himself had unknowingly done.”
Klytemnestra felt sick. She gripped the arm of her throne to steady herself, but then drew her hand back. Was this the very throne where that monstrous man had once sat?
“How can men do such things?” she asked hoarsely. “And to their own kin?” Her stomach turned with a remembered horror that she tried to push away. “I—I’m not sure I want to hear the rest of the story.”
“But you must, my lady,” urged Aigisthos. “Now that we have begun. It is a tale full of evil, yes, and violence and loss. But such is life, is it not?” He looked into her eyes.
She looked back. Did he know of her own loss? “Such is life, yes,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “But I do not revel in hearing of it.”
Aigisthos nodded apologetically. “I have saddened you, my lady. But please, let me finish the story. The rest is not so evil.”
Klytemnestra paused, eyeing her guest warily. “Very well,” she said. “Go on.”
Aigisthos settled back into his seat.
“For the crime of consuming human flesh, Thyestes was exiled—not just from Mycenae, but from all civil society. He could enter no sanctuaries, take part in no rites. He wandered for many months, turned away at every door, until a goatherd and his family took pity on him. They gave him work and a home, such as their humble dwelling was. And in time Thyestes took to his new life and even fathered another son, with the daughter of the kind goatherd.
“Thyestes had made peace with the fate that had been threaded for him, and so his son grew up knowing nothing of his royal blood, nor the life he might have had. But when the boy reached manhood and began to ask more questions than his father had answers, Thyestes knew he must tell his son the truth of his history. And when he heard what his father had once been, and what his cruel uncle had done, the boy was incensed—for his father and for the brothers he had never known, and for himself, robbed of his own fortune.
“That night, while his father slept, the boy ran away. He journeyed to Mycenae and found King Atreus, his uncle, exposed on the shore, performing a sacrifice. The boy took his opportunity and killed Atreus right there on the sand, though he himself was still barely a man. And Mycenae, suffering under years of misrule, welcomed back Thyestes and his son as their kings.
“Now Thyestes, being a kinder man than his brother, let the sons of Atreus live, and merely exiled them from his kingdom. But this—as I’m sure you can foresee—was his mistake. For five years after the death of Atreus, his sons—your noble husband, Agamemnon, and his brother, Menelaos—were able to gather enough allies to return to Mycenae and take it for themselves. This part you know, of course, for your father was the greatest of those allies. Even now it seems Lord Agamemnon has a gift for summoning armies.” He gave a sad, lopsided smile. “They killed Thyestes, and would have killed their father’s murderer too, had the palace servants not helped him to flee.
“And so there it is,” sighed Aigisthos. “The history of Mycenae, such as I am able to give it.”
“You give it well,” Klytemnestra said graciously, though there was an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Indeed, I am impressed by how much you know.”
“Oh, it is common knowledge, for those who seek it.”
“And what of Thyestes’s son—the one who escaped. Is his fate known?” She gave Aigisthos a long look, holding his gaze in her own.
“By some,” he said slowly. “And by you, I think.”
Klytemnestra’s unease turned in her stomach.
“Damon, summon the guards,” she called across the hall, keeping both eyes on Aigisthos. Did he have a blade? She could not see one.
“Damon!” She had not heard him move. She turned her head and saw him sitting just where he had been before, looking at her levelly. “Damon?”
And from those dark eyes it struck her, like an arrow shot across the eerie quiet of the hall. She had been betrayed.
CHAPTER 46
KLYTEMNESTRA
Klytemnestra went to scream, but a hand clamped on her mouth.
“Please, my lady,” said Aigisthos, his eyes inches from hers. “I have not come to bring you harm.” He must have read the true fear in her eyes, for he quickly added, “Your children are safe. No one will hurt them. I just need you to listen to what I have to say. Will you do that?”
She searched his eyes for truth, desperate. But she did not know this man. Her children could already be dead. They might have blades at their throats at this very moment. She looked over toward Damon, her eyes blazing at the man she had thought her ally.
“He is telling the truth, my lady,” the steward said, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry . . . I—your children are safe, I promise you.”
She looked back at Aigisthos, his salty palm still pressed against her teeth. She glared at him, daring him to be lying. But his eyes looked earnest. They were almost afraid.
Slowly, warily, she nodded.
The hand withdrew, and she did not scream. But her eyes stayed on those of Aigisthos, shadowing them, watching for danger.
“It is as you have deduced,” he said. “I am Aigisthos, son of Thyestes. Murderer of Atreus and cousin to your husband. But I have not come to avenge my father, nor to steal back his throne. I have come to make you an offer.”
Klytemnestra choked a disbelieving laugh. “Is that so? And this little ambush”—she threw a sharp look at Damon—“this was designed to make me more receptive, was it?” She drew in a shaky breath. “No, I—I think you should leave now. Both of you. Before I call for my guards.”
She stuck her chin out a little, jaw fixed hard, hoping he would not see the fear behind her glaring eyes.
Suddenly Damon’s voice chimed out from across the hall. “I advise you to hear him out, my lady.”
Klytemnestra’s jaw tightened still further. She had trusted the steward, even thought him her friend. She did not turn to look at him.
“My lady—”
“Why should I?” she shot at Aigisthos. “You have taken advantage of my hospitality, slithered your way into my home, where my children—” She broke off, feeling her throat tightening. “You are lord of nowhere, king of no one. What could you possibly have to offer me?”
“Security,” said Aigisthos evenly. “For you and your children.
For Mycenae too. That is what I offer.”
“I’ve heard quite enough,” Klytemnestra snapped, beginning to rise. “How you think you could—”
“By becoming your consort.”
She stopped, her mouth open in astonishment.
“Before you say anything, I would expect nothing from you. You may treat it as . . . a kind of trade deal, I suppose. I would gain my rightful home, and you would have my protection.”
“Lord Aigisthos,” she began. “I do not need a consort. I have a husband. And I am doing very well at ruling without him.”
“Yes, Damon has told me. Everything is going well for now. But you are vulnerable. Your authority derives from your husband. The men follow you because they fear him. And while he lives, perhaps your enemies will keep their distance as well. But if Agamemnon should die, what then? Mycenae will be taken from you. Either from within or from without. Your children will be killed outright. And perhaps you will be too, or else kept as a trophy, a slave in your own home, to be bid and bedded and beaten as your new master sees fit.”
Klytemnestra’s mouth hung open, but silent.
“You know that what I say is true,” Aigisthos continued, his voice quiet. “You fear it yourself.”
And she did. She had lain awake with these thoughts on many nights. No matter how well she ruled, no matter how much respect she gained, she was only queen because Agamemnon was king. Without a man, a woman was nothing. Those smiling faces that served her now would scorn a woman who dared to rule alone. It was a bitter truth, and yet she could not deny it. And Aigisthos did not even know her full turmoil—that even if Agamemnon returned home safe, she might still kill him herself. She did not fear the act so much as the danger she would bring upon her surviving children, in avenging the one she had lost.
“If your husband dies in this war, you and your children will fall with him,” Aigisthos said gravely. “You stand upon a knife edge. I am offering you another way. Ally yourself with me, and I will vow this very night, with sacred oaths and sacrifices, that I will never harm you or your children, that I will do all I can to protect you. I still have supporters in Mycenae and its hinterland, people who were loyal to my father before his exile, people outraged by what Atreus did, people who served me and my father before we were deposed. Damon is one of them. His father served my father, helped run his affairs. He was killed for it, when your husband took Mycenae. Damon had to pretend he was a kitchen boy to save his own life. And he saved mine too—helped me escape the palace. He is loyal to me, yes, but he is no less loyal to you because of it.”
Daughters of Sparta Page 26
