Daughters of Sparta

by Claire Heywood

“Then I will not.”

  Klytemnestra bit her lip. She didn’t like her daughter being so disrespectful, but she feared that reprimanding her would only serve to push her further away.

  “If you will not join us then you will have to spend your afternoon with Eudora and your brother.”

  “He’s not my brother,” Elektra said flatly, watching her spindle once more.

  Klytemnestra bit her lip again.

  “I cannot leave you on your own,” she said.

  “I am nineteen, mother,” Elektra replied, not bothering to hide the impatience in her voice. “I have the guard.”

  Klytemnestra opened her mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Her daughter was right. She was a woman now, even if she was not married. It was just that Klytemnestra feared she was shutting herself off.

  “If you change your mind, have the guard escort you to my chamber.”

  Elektra didn’t respond.

  “Come on,” she said to Chrysothemis, trying to rekindle her brightness. “Lord Aigisthos has a surprise for you.”

  Her daughter’s eyes lit up, and Klytemnestra smiled, but the happiness she had felt just minutes ago had faded.

  CHAPTER 50

  KLYTEMNESTRA

  Klytemnestra lay in bed, a lamp still burning on the table beside her. Aigisthos had wanted to tell Aletes a story before he went to sleep, and she was waiting for him to return. He wouldn’t be long, she knew—Aletes’s eyes always started to droop before the story was halfway told.

  Klytemnestra’s new life still felt odd sometimes. Most days she would go along living it, too busy to do anything else. But then she would catch herself, and it was as though she were living another’s person’s life. It felt fragile, as if a strong wind might blow it away, or as if one day she might go to sleep and awake to find that it had all disappeared. But most of the time these fears lay silent, and she just enjoyed living it.

  It was strange to think back to that first evening, when Aigisthos had revealed himself to her. If a seer had come to her that night and told her what was to come, she didn’t think she would have believed it. For more than a year, nearly two, her relationship with Aigisthos had remained strictly formal. To begin with, she had not even let him meet her daughters, and would merely join him for dinner each evening before they each retired to their own separate chambers.

  But in time, despite her caution, she began to find herself enjoying his company. He was warm and intelligent. He made her laugh—truly laugh, as she had not done in so long—and, perhaps most of all, he had made her feel less alone. He had been a friend and a partner to her, and still was, giving her counsel when she asked for it, encouragement when she needed it. He helped her to rule without ever trying to rule her.

  And he had been so good with the girls. Chrysothemis had adored him instantly, for his jokes and his gifts. And though Elektra had been much less trusting, he had never stopped trying to win her approval.

  Her present marriage—for that was what it was, in her eyes at least—was so different from the first. She had found a new happiness with Aigisthos, a new security she hadn’t thought possible. It was only from being with him, learning to trust him, that she had realized how much her former life had been dictated by fear. Fear that she would say or do the wrong thing, fear that she would anger Agamemnon, fear that he would hurt her, or worse, her children. She still had fears, of course, but now they came from without. They did not prowl her home, brood in her bed. It was as if she could finally uncurl and be her full self.

  She heard familiar footsteps in the corridor outside and the chamber door opened. Aigisthos’s face appeared, smiling.

  “I didn’t even get to the centaurs’ feast today,” he said, closing the door softly behind him. “Eudora must have worn him out.” He untied his boots and slid into bed beside her. “I checked on the girls, too—they’re fine. Well, as fine as Elektra ever is.”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. She did not turn her head.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you still thinking about the grain stores? I think Damon is more cautious than he needs to be—”

  “No, it’s not that,” she said, turning to look at him. “It’s just . . . I’m worried about Elektra. She’s so unhappy.” Aigisthos’s face was sympathetic. “She barely speaks to me. I understood at first, why she was wary, but I hoped that in time . . .”

  “I am not her father. I do not expect her to love me,” he said.

  “But she hates you. And she resents me for loving you, for betraying her father. She still loves him. It’s different for Chrysothemis—she barely remembers him. But Elektra . . . I fear she will never accept it.”

  Aigisthos didn’t say anything, but reached out for her hand and squeezed it.

  “Perhaps I should find her a husband,” Klytemnestra continued. “Let her begin her own life, in her own palace. If she can find her own happiness, perhaps she will forgive me mine. Gods know she is old enough—even Chrysothemis is in her bloom now. They have grown so quickly, it makes me feel old.”

  She looked at Aigisthos, wanting him to tell her what she should do.

  “You are not old,” he said with a smile, stroking her cheek. “And yes, any other girl Elektra’s age would likely be married by now, but she is not any girl. Do you really think she will be ruled by a man?” He raised a playful eyebrow. “A husband is not the answer. And I know you do not want to send her away.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I wish I never had to send either of them away. I just want them to be happy.”

  “I know,” said Aigisthos, and kissed her forehead. “Give her time. Perhaps things will change if Agamemnon . . .” But he fell quiet.

  She knew what he was going to say. If Agamemnon dies. They had both been waiting for that day, and year after year it had not come. Nine years her husband had been at war. She had never expected it to go on for this long, and perhaps neither had he. But one day it had to end, and then what would happen?

  “He may still be killed,” she said quietly.

  Aigisthos nodded, but he was deep in thought.

  “Aigisthos?”

  “What if he is not?” he said in a low voice. “He has survived this long. I said that I would keep you safe.”

  “And you have.”

  “But if Agamemnon returns . . . there will be civil war. You know it as much as I. And every life lost will be blood on my hands.” He looked away from her. The usual humor of his cheeks had fled.

  They were both silent for a while.

  “I once vowed that I would kill him myself.”

  It was strange to say the words. They sounded ridiculous as they came out of her mouth, so much that a mirthless laugh broke from her throat. It felt like a lifetime ago, and she had never spoken of it to anyone, not even to Aigisthos.

  He looked up at her, his eyes questioning.

  “The night before Iphigenia was killed. I vowed to Lady Hera that if Agamemnon killed my daughter, I would kill him in turn. And I almost did it, I had the knife in my hand. I—”

  Aigisthos’s face wore a strange expression. Was it horror? Disgust? Did he think less of her, now that she had told him her darkest secret? She wished she had kept silent.

  “You should do it,” he said suddenly. “If he survives, if he returns to Mycenae. You should kill him.”

  His eyes were earnest. He was gripping her hand, but she felt afraid.

  “I was only . . . I can’t.”

  “I will help you. We can do it together. Think of all the lives we could save. Civil war would tear this kingdom apart. Better to kill him alone. Let him think all is well, let him come to the palace, let him believe he is safe. And then . . . you know you could do it—you’re the only one who could.”

  She was silent, looking into his fervent eyes, still afraid.

  “He deserves to die,�
�� Aigisthos continued, his cheeks flushed again. “For what he did to Iphigenia. The gods will not blame you. He has committed the greater crime.”

  “One crime does not forgive another,” she argued. “I would be condemned by gods and men! I have already abandoned my sacred duty as his wife, but to desecrate it so completely . . . I would be known as the evilest woman who ever lived.”

  Her breath rattled unsteadily. Somehow, the prospect was so much more terrible than it had been all those years ago. Then she had felt as if Agamemnon had taken everything from her. She hadn’t cared what would happen afterward, what people would say, what her life would be. She hadn’t cared if she lived or died. But now . . . now she was happy. There was so much more at stake, and the thought of losing it terrified her. Then another thought came to her.

  “What about my children? I cannot put that upon them—the knowledge that their father was slain by their mother. It would destroy Elektra. She would never forgive me.”

  “And what about our child?” Aigisthos shot back, his eyes as fearful as hers. “If Agamemnon returns, you will have no choice but to send Aletes away, to pretend he never existed—or Agamemnon will certainly kill him. You know this.”

  As she looked into his eyes, she realized he was right—it was not only their lives at stake. She could not bear to lose another child. Anything was better than that. And yet the thought of Aletes brought another innocent face to her mind. Her beautiful Orestes, still a babe when she last laid eyes upon him and yet he must be almost ten now. In killing Agamemnon she would likely lose Orestes forever—why would Anaxibia return him to her brother’s murderer? But at least he would be safe. Wasn’t that why she had sent him away? He would still have a home and a family and a future, but Aletes . . . she could not condemn her sweet boy to the life of an exile.

  She and Aigisthos looked at each other, their eyes shining, their expressions intense. Klytemnestra wished that such a terrible decision were not hers to make, that her new life could go on as if the old had never existed. But deep in her heart she knew the truth, had known it all these years. She had made her decision the day she agreed to Aigisthos’s proposal.

  “I will do it,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She felt Aigisthos squeeze her hand.

  “We will do it.”

  CHAPTER 51

  HELEN

  They were in Kassandra’s chamber this morning. It was smaller than Paris’s, but comfortable and brightly decorated. Kassandra was a skilled weaver and would hang her finished cloths on the walls. The patterns were full of animals and flowers and all the beauty of nature—gentle and vibrant at once, like Kassandra herself. Helen liked to study them as she sat spinning.

  The sounds of battle clattered in the distance, farther from the city today. Many of Kassandra’s brothers were down on the plain and, though she tried to maintain her usual lightness, Helen could tell that her friend was afraid for them. She kept glancing at the window, as if news of the battle might be borne in on the breeze.

  “Do you think I should go down to the gates?” she asked suddenly, her foot tapping nervously on the rug-covered floor. “There might be some news. Or maybe I could do something to help.”

  She looked at Helen, seeking direction.

  “Go down to the gates if you like. I can stay here.”

  But Kassandra hesitated. “I don’t know. My mother may want me to help her with the libations . . .” She looked to the door and away again. “She says Apollo favors the young. If she calls for me and I am not here . . . no, I should stay.”

  She nodded her fair head decisively, and yet her brow remained furrowed. They were both quiet for a moment.

  “What of Othryoneus?” Helen asked brightly, hoping to turn her friend’s mind to happier things. “Does he still visit you? Perhaps it will not be long until you are wed.”

  As Kassandra’s worried face broke into a girlish grin, Helen knew it had worked.

  “Yes, he still visits. Sometimes Mother lets him hold my hand.” Her smile broadened. “But mostly we talk. He is such a great-hearted man. And he knows so many things. You know, he told me that—”

  She was cut off by a hammering on the door.

  Kassandra sprang to her feet and was there in a moment, pulling it open to reveal the pallid face of her twin brother, Helenos.

  “Brother!” she cried as he stumbled over the threshold. His left hand was a mass of blood-soaked wool, hanging limply at his side.

  “My hand,” he mumbled. Beads of sweat dripped down his brow. He looked as if he were about to faint.

  Kassandra led him quickly to the chair she had just left, and he fell into it.

  “What happened?” she asked, scurrying to fetch a jug of water from the table.

  “My hand,” her brother groaned again, his face tight with pain. “The spear went right through it. I . . . Agenor bound it up. It’s ruined, Kass.” His voice cracked, and he looked up at her, his young face filled with so much fear. “You’ve got to help me.”

  “I’ll help you, don’t worry. Hush now.”

  She crossed over to her bed and took up the woolen veil that lay there, dipping its end in the water jug and wiping her brother’s brow.

  “It’ll be all right. You’re with me now. I’ll look after you.”

  Helen had been so absorbed by Helenos’s entrance that she hadn’t noticed the other figure who stood in the doorway. As Deiphobos stepped forward into the room, Helen turned and saw him. His right arm was red with blood.

  “Kassandra,” Helen said, directing her friend’s eyes to him.

  “Deiphobos! You as well?” Still soothing Helenos, she gestured for her elder brother to sit on the bed. “Helen, would you help him?”

  Helen nodded and crossed the room, though reluctantly. Deiphobos made her uncomfortable—the way he looked at her whenever they crossed paths. She would feel his eyes on her, even as she walked away. But he needed her help. And so did Kassandra.

  “What should I do?” she asked, sitting down beside her brother-in-law. The blood was coming from a long gash on his upper arm. His face was set hard, but she could tell he was in pain.

  “Try cleaning off some of the blood,” Kassandra replied, as she began to unwrap the wool from her twin’s hand. But she stopped when he cried out with fresh pain.

  “I need to get some supplies,” said Kassandra, getting up off her knees. “We need honey and herbs for the wounds. And fresh wool for the binding. Will you wait here with them until I get back?” She hurried toward the door without waiting for a reply. “I’ll bring some strong wine for the pain, too,” she called back to her brothers as she disappeared down the corridor.

  How was it that Kassandra always knew exactly what to do? Helen sat on the bed, feeling useless, as the smell of blood filled the small room—she could taste it on her tongue. Helenos sat on his chair, whimpering incoherently. Better not to touch him, she thought. Kassandra had told her to clean Deiphobos’s arm, but she was afraid to touch it. Her hand hung in midair, clutching the wet cloth. What if she hurt him?

  “Just do it,” Deiphobos said, watching her. “Go on.”

  She looked at him, sucked in a breath, and put the cloth to his skin. The older blood had already begun to dry, so she had to rub a little to get it off. She saw Deiphobos grit his teeth as her cloth went near the gash, but he said nothing. It was only when most of the arm was clean that he spoke again.

  “How does it feel?” he asked quietly. “To see men bleed for you?”

  His question caught her off guard. Her lips fell open but no words would come to them. They do not bleed for me was what she wanted to say. But was it true? They fought for the idea of her, but did that really make any difference to the men lying dead in the sand? To the widows waiting at the gate? Her numb lips were saved from forming a reply as Kassandra trotted back into the chamber, her arms full with various jar
s and bundles. She passed Helen a wineskin.

  “Give some to Deiphobos while I make the poultice. You’d better save most of it for Helenos, though,” she said, looking at her twin with concern. “He’ll need it.”

  * * *

  It was some time before both wounds were cleaned and dressed. Kassandra did most of the work, but Helen helped where she could—bringing fresh water, pouring more wine, holding poor Helenos’s good hand through the worst of the pain. His left hand was so mangled that it made Helen feel ill to look at it. Despite Kassandra’s efforts, she doubted he would regain the use of it. For now, the best they could do was to give him more wine and let him rest.

  He lay propped up on his sister’s bed, quieter now but still pale. Deiphobos, whose wound was shallow by comparison, had taken a chair next to Helen and Kassandra, his arm tightly wrapped with wool.

  “The fighting was thick today,” he said, taking a swig of wine. “Many more than us two were wounded. Some killed, too.”

  “And the Greeks?” asked Helen. “Were many of them killed?”

  “If it’s that Spartan husband you’re worried about, you needn’t bother,” spat Deiphobos. “He was in fine form. Probably hoping he would run into our dear brother Paris again.”

  “It was him who hit me,” came a thin voice from the bed. “The fair-haired one. Sent his spear right through my—” He winced at the memory. “Split my bow in two as well. He was wild, he was. Think I cut down one of his companions. Must have been what set him on me.”

  “Who?” asked Helen. “Who did you kill?”

  “I don’t know. His charioteer maybe. He was short, with black hair.”

  Deipyros? The description sounded right. She felt a pang of pity for Menelaos. They had been companions since they were boys.

  “I wouldn’t waste any tears on one poor Greek,” Deiphobos said to her abruptly. “Men are dying every day. And they’ll keep on dying. It seems the gods have willed this war to go on until every one of us has been sent to Hades.”