Giving voice to a woman condemned by history, this debut is an epic feminist retelling of the story of notorious Spartan queen, Clytemnestra.
Part One
There is no peace
for a woman with ambition
No love
for a woman with a crown
She loves too much
she is lustful
Her power is too strong
she is ruthless
She fights for vengeance
she is mad
Kings are brilliant
mighty
godlike
Queens are deadly
shameless
accursed
1. Prey
Clytemnestra looks down at the steep ravine but can see no trace of dead bodies. She searches for cracked skulls, broken bones, corpses eaten by wild dogs and pecked by vultures, but nothing. There are only a few brave flowers, growing between the cracks, their petals white against the darkness of the ravine. She wonders how they manage to grow in such a place of death.
There were no flowers down there when she was little. She remembers crouching in the forest as a child, watching the elders drag criminals and weak babies up the trail and throw them into the gorge Spartans call Ceadas. Down the cliff, the rocks are as sharp as freshly cast bronze and as slippery as raw fish. Clytemnestra used to hide and pray for all of those men whose death would be long and painful. She couldn’t pray for the babies: the thought made her restless. If she walked closer to the edge of the ravine, she could feel a soft breeze caressing her skin. Her mother had told her that the dead infants lying at the bottom of the Ceadas spoke through the wind. Those voices whispered, yet Clytemnestra couldn’t grasp their words. So she let her mind wander as she looked at the sun peeping through the leafy branches.
An eerie silence looms over the forest. Clytemnestra knows she is being followed. She descends quickly from the high ground leaving the ravine behind, trying not to trip on the slippery stones that form the hunting trail. The wind is colder, the sky darker. When she left the palace, hours ago, the sun was rising, warm on her skin, and the grass was wet against her soles. Her mother was already sitting in the throne room, her face glowing in the orange light, and Clytemnestra slipped past the doors before she could be seen.
There is a sudden movement behind the trees, and the sound of crunching leaves. Clytemnestra slips and cuts her palm against the sharp edge of a rock. When she looks up, ready to defend herself, two big dark eyes are staring back at her. Just a deer. She clenches her fist, then wipes her hand on her tunic before the blood can leave tracks for her hunter.
She can hear wolves howl somewhere far above her but forces herself to keep going. Spartan boys of her age fight wolves and panthers in pairs as part of their training. Clytemnestra once shaved her head, like a boy, and went to the gymnasium with them hoping to prepare for a hunt. When her mother found out, she didn’t feed her for two days. ‘Part of the training is to starve Spartan boys until they are forced to steal,’ she said. Clytemnestra endured the punishment ‒ she knew she deserved it.
The stream leads to a spring and a little waterfall. Above it, she can see a crevice, an entrance to what looks like a cave. She starts to climb the mossy rocks at the sides of the spring. Her hand throbs and slips on the surface of the cliff. Her bow is slung over her back, and the dagger hangs loose from her belt, its handle pressing against her thigh.
At the top, she stops to catch her breath. She tears off a piece of her tunic, douses it in the clear water of the spring and wraps it around her bleeding hand. The crowns of the oaks blend with the darkening sky, and everything is blurred to her tired eyes. She knows she is too exposed on the ground. The higher you climb, the better, her father always says.
She scrambles up the tallest tree and pauses astride a branch to listen, holding her dagger tightly. The moon is high in the sky, its contours clear and cold, like a silver shield. Everything is silent, except for the water of the spring below her.
A branch cracks, and two golden eyes appear in the darkness in front of her, studying her. Clytemnestra remains still, blood pulsating in her temples. On the tree opposite her, a silver shape slips away from the shadows, revealing a coat of thick fur and pointed ears. A lynx.
“To their people, Helen of Sparta may look like a goddess, but truly, she follows her sister in everything she does.”
The beast jumps and lands on her tree. The impact makes her lose her balance. She clutches the branch, but her nails break, her palms slip. She falls and lands on the muddy ground. For a second, she is blind and her breath is gone. The animal tries to jump down on her, but her hands are moving fast to her bow and arrows. She shoots, and rolls onto her side. The lynx’s claws scratch her back and she screams.
The animal stands, its back to the narrow crevice that leads into the cave. For a moment, woman and lynx stare at each other. Then, swift as a striking snake, Clytemnestra throws her dagger into the animal’s shoulder. The lynx shrieks, and Clytemnestra runs past it, towards the blackness of the cave. She barely passes through the crevice, grazing her head and hips, sinks into the darkness and waits, praying that the cave has no other entrance, and no other visitor.
Slowly, her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. Her bow and most of her arrows are somehow intact and she sets them aside. She removes her bloodied tunic and rests her back against the cold rock. Her panting echoes in the humid air as if the cave itself were breathing. Can the goddess Artemis see her now? She wishes she could, though her father has always told her not to bother with gods. Her mother, on the other hand, believes that forests hide the gods’ secrets. Caves to her are shelters, minds that have thought and lived the lives of the creatures they have hosted over time. But maybe her father is right: this cave sounds as empty as a temple at night. There is only the moaning of the wounded lynx, which moves further and further away.
When it dies, Clytemnestra drags herself closer to the crevice and peeps out. Nothing moves on the muddy ground. She slips back into her tunic, flinching when it sticks to her wound, then leaves the cave, her hips brushing against the smooth rocks.
The lynx lies close to the spring, its blood spreading on the orange leaves, like spilled wine. Clytemnestra limps closer to it and retrieves her dagger. The animal’s eyes are open, reflecting the bright shape of the moon. Surprise is still etched on them, and sadness. They are not so different from a dead man’s eyes. Clytemnestra ties the animal’s paws to her quiver and starts to walk, hoping to be home by morning.
Her mother will be proud of her hunt.
2. One Girl Wins and the Other Loses
‘Slow down, Clytemnestra! Artemis will shoot me if I am second again!’
Clytemnestra laughs and the sound echoes like birdsong across the plain. ‘She won’t. Mother told you that to make you run faster!’
They are racing between the rows of olive and fig trees, their hair catching the leaves, their bare feet stepping on fallen fruit. Clytemnestra is faster. Cuts and bruises cover her arms, and her eyes show her determination to reach the river first. Behind her, Helen pants, calling to her sister. Whenever the sunlight catches her hair, it glows as brightly as the ripe fruit around her.
Clytemnestra jumps out of the grove onto the sun-baked earth. The ground burns her feet so she hops onto the yellow grass. She stops only when she gets to the river to look at her figure mirrored in the water. She is dirty, dishevelled.
‘Wait for me,’ Helen calls.
Clytemnestra turns. Her sister has stopped at the edge of the grove, sweat pouring down her tunic. She is glowering at her. ‘Why must you do everything in a hurry?’ Helen asks.
Clytemnestra smiles. To their people, Helen of Sparta may look like a goddess, but truly, she follows her sister in everything she does. ‘Because it’s hot,’ Clytemnestra says. She throws aside her tunic and plunges into the river. Her long hair dances around her, like seaweed. The fresh breeze of the early morning is making way for the summer heat. Along the banks of the Eurotas river, between the dry plains and rough mountains, a few blood-red anemones struggle to grow. Not far from the banks, the thin strip of fertile soil with olive and fig trees stretches shyly, like a ray of sun in a clouded sky. Helen is lingering by the bank, the water up to her thighs. She always walks slowly into the river, wetting herself with her hands.
“If you’re the fairest woman in all our lands and beyond, I might as well be the cleverest. I don’t see why the gods should be angry with that ‒ they’ll always be cleverer and more beautiful anyway.”
‘Come on.’ Clytemnestra swims towards her and hugs her waist.
‘It’s cold,’ Helen moans, but keeps walking into the water. When Clytemnestra tries to let go of her, Helen clings to her warm body, pressing as close as she can.
‘You are no Spartan woman,’ Clytemnestra says, with a smile.
‘Not like you. If you were a man, you’d be among the strongest fighters in Greece.’
‘I’m already among the cleverest in Sparta,’ Clytemnestra says, grinning.
Helen frowns. ‘You shouldn’t say these things. You know what Mother says about hubris.’
‘The pride that comes before a fall,’ Clytemnestra recites, bored. ‘But Father always says he’s the bravest warrior in Sparta and no one has punished him yet.’
‘Father is king. We aren’t, so we shouldn’t anger the gods,’ Helen insists.
Clytemnestra laughs. Her sister, moving through the world as if life were all mud and murk, always amuses her. ‘If you’re the fairest woman in all our lands and beyond, I might as well be the cleverest. I don’t see why the gods should be angry with that ‒ they’ll always be cleverer and more beautiful anyway.’
Helen thinks it through. Clytemnestra swims towards a patch of sunlight glistening on the water, and her sister follows. The two remain floating in the river, their faces like sunflowers, always following the light.
They reach the gymnasium in time for their daily practice. The sun is strong, and they hurry under the shade of the trees that surround the courtyard. On the sand, young girls are already practising, running around the square fully naked. Here the Spartiates, daughters of the best and noblest warriors of Sparta, train with commoners, and will continue to do so until they start a family. Their bodies are covered with oil, old scars pale against the tanned skin.
Clytemnestra steps onto the yard, Helen close behind her. The sand burns under her feet, like a heated blade, and the air is thick with the smell of sweat. The master – one of her father’s warriors – gives them a discus, then a spear, and corrects their posture as they throw again and again. The sun grows higher, and the girls jump, race and run, their limbs hurting, their throats sore in the dry, hot air.
At last, there is the dancing. Clytemnestra catches sight of Helen smiling at her; the dance is her sister’s favourite moment. The drums start beating and the girls begin. Bare feet thud on the sand, pulsing through the sunlit air, and the dancers’ hair moves, like tongues of flame. Clytemnestra dances with her eyes closed, her strong legs following the rhythm. Helen’s movements mirror her sister’s, but are more composed and graceful, as if she were afraid of losing herself. Her feet light and precise, her arms like wings, she looks ready to take flight and soar high, away from the others’ eyes. But she can’t rise, so she keeps dancing, relentless.
Clytemnestra dances for herself; Helen dances for others.
Extracted from Clytemnestra by Costanza Casati, out now.
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