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A Novel
by Costanza Casati
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When it is their turn to perform, Timandra forgets half of the words. Helen and Clytemnestra's voices blend together like sky and sea—one light and sweet, the other dark and fierce. They stop singing and the teacher smiles at them, ignoring Timandra.
"Are you ready to impress the foreigner at dinner?"
They turn and Castor is standing by the door, with an amused smile.
Helen blushes and Clytemnestra puts down her lyre. "Do not be too jealous," she tells her brother. "I am sure he will have eyes for you too."
Castor laughs. "I doubt it. Anyway, your lesson is over, Clytemnestra. Leda is waiting for you in the gynaeceum."
* * *
Outside her mother's room, the corridor is full of noise—women's whispers, hurrying feet, the clatter of pots and pans—and the smell of spiced meat drifts from the kitchen. Clytemnestra opens the bedroom door and closes it quickly behind her. Inside, it is as quiet as a tomb. Her mother is sitting on a wooden stool, staring at the ceiling as if praying to the gods. Slivers of light from the small windows touch the walls at intervals, illuminating the white flowers painted against a bright red background.
"You wanted to see me?" Clytemnestra asks.
Leda stands, and smooths her daughter's hair. "Do you remember when I took you to the sea?"
Clytemnestra nods, though she can only recall glimpses: Leda's skin, wetted by the crystalline water, the drops tracing paths on her arms and belly, and the shells, scattered among the pebbles. They were empty. When she had asked why, Leda had explained it was because the animal that had been living there was dead and its body had been eaten by another.
"I told you about my marriage with your father that day, but you were too little to understand."
"Do you wish to tell me again?"
"I do. Do you know why marriage is called so by the Spartans?" Harpazéin is the word she uses, which also means to take with force.
"The man kidnaps his wife and she needs to put up a fight," Clytemnestra says.
Leda nods. She starts plaiting Clytemnestra's hair and her hands are rough against the back of her daughter's neck. "A husband needs to show his strength," she says, "but the wife must prove herself a worthy match."
"She must submit herself to him."
"Yes."
"I don't think I can do that, Mother."
"When your father came to take me to his room, I struggled but he was stronger. I cried and shouted but he wouldn't listen. So I pretended to give in, and when he relaxed I put my arms around his neck until he choked." She finishes her daughter's hair, and Clytemnestra turns. The green in Leda's eyes is dark, like the evergreens on the highest mountains. "I told him I would never submit. When I let him go, he said I was worthier than he had expected and we made love."
"Are you saying I should do the same?"
"I'm saying that it is hard to find a man who is really strong. Strong enough not to desire to be stronger than you."
There is a knock on the door, and Helen steps inside. She is wearing a white gown and a corset that barely conceals her breasts. She stops when she sees her mother, afraid to interrupt.
"Come in, Helen," says Leda.
"I am ready. Shall we go?" Helen asks. Leda nods and takes her hand, guiding her out of the room. Clytemnestra follows, wondering if Leda has already told her sister what she has just vouchsafed to herself.
* * *
The dining hall looks different tonight. Wooden benches have been draped with lambskins, and tapestries are hanging in place of the bronze weapons. Royal hunts and battle scenes with bleeding men and godlike heroes now cover the walls. Servants move quickly and silently, like nymphs around streams. Tyndareus has ordered more oil lamps hung up, and they cast flickering lights on the large table where a few noble Spartans and the foreign king are eating.
Excerpted from Clytemnestra by Costanza Casati. Copyright © 2023 by Costanza Casati. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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