The House of Atreus bears a curse. One steeped in blood and nourished by decades of violence.
Klytemnestra knew this when she married Agamemnon, but being a princess in Sparta doesn't leave you with much choice, though she longs for it. The Fates s...
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The camp is crowded. I am reminded of how, on the day Menelaus laid claim to Helen, all the other suitors made a pact to come to his aid should she ever be stolen from him. They seem to be holding onto that promise now. The smell of thousands of men and horses hangs heavy in the air, almost oppressive. Every hour, more and more seem to arrive from all over Greece. The ships lie waiting, unmoving, sails limp in the absence of even the slightest breeze.
There's a peculiar feeling in my chest that won't let go of me. I tried to catch Agamemnon alone. Though he's been taciturn for as long as I've known him, this silence now seems different. He's been avoiding me. Menalaus hasn't left his side since we arrived, subtly keeping me from talking to my husband alone. He thinks I haven't noticed, but I did. He kept telling me not to worry about Achilles and I wanted to tell him not to worry about his wife as she's probably in better hands now. I thought better of it and held my tongue.
After our arrival, they led us into a tent, out of the blinding sun and into the cool shade. There we were joined by another man. Odysseus, King of Ithaca. He's tall, with a bronzed face and sparkling azure eyes. His smile seems playful on the surface, his words charming, but there's a cunning glint hidden in his gaze. I heard he pretended to be mad so he wouldn't have to join the war. The three of them excused themselves and left to make more preparations for the troops' departure.
I send the two servants we brought with us back to get our things from the carriage and tell Iphigenia to lie down and rest a little from the journey while I step outside again. The questions still burn on my tongue and if my husband won't answer them I will find someone else to do it.
Gravel crunches beneath my sandals as I make my way across the camp, through the thicket of tents and the narrow spaces between them, ducking under flaps of cloth. I observe the men bustling around. They idle around as if they were on vacation. Some are cleaning weapons, repairing armour, while others are sitting around fires, cooking food, eating, drinking, and talking. Most seem to ignore me, a few cast curious glances at me, but no one looks like they want to talk to me.
I step out of the shadows the tents cast across the dry ground and that's when I hear it. The clamour of voices. It's muffled and distant at first. But as I move forward, towards where the ship masts fill the horizon, the noise grows louder. Intrigued, I continue, breathing in the salty scent of the ocean. It overpowers the odours of all the men now that I've moved closer to the sea. I glimpse a small crowd ahead. Their shouts, cheers and laughter overlap in a cacophony that pulls my insides taut.
They're standing in a loose ring around two other men, who are circling each other, naked save for their perizoma. Their bare chests and thighs glint in the summer sun that is beating down on them. One of them is bald with a thick dark beard and very tall, towering over the other man. The second one is young, with golden skin and a lithe build. I watch from a distance, trying to get a good look at what's happening without squeezing myself between the men. When the two of them suddenly lunge at each other.
