Clytemnestra

by Costanza Casati

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

“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.”

The two remain floating in the river, their faces like sunflowers, always following the light.

“Ambition, courage, distrust. You will be queens soon enough, and that is what you will need if you want to outlive the men who’ll wish to be rid of you.”

but all she can think of is the feel of Tantalus’s hand on her neck. It was like being touched by a star.

“Then I will go back to Maeonia. And I will have learned how painful it is not to have what you desire.” “That would be good for you.” “I am not so sure.”

As he speaks, she is stricken by how wonderful and scary it is to hang on his every word and to wish she could listen to him forever. It is like jumping over the edge of a cliff and falling, her heart racing, yet always longing for more.

All her life, she has been taught courage, strength, resilience, but must those qualities be kept at bay with a husband?

want to be with someone who is different, someone who makes me look at the world with pleasure, who shows me its wonders and secrets.

But nothing can ever stay the same. You can’t step twice into the same river.

Tantalus’s absence is like a shadow—she can feel it, yet whenever she turns to look at it, it is gone.

She knows only that leaving doesn’t feel like punishment to her but rather a blessing. Life at this moment is like being at sea, open waters all around her and no coastline in sight, the world brimming with possibilities.

“When you are fighting a much stronger animal, intelligence isn’t enough,”

“I’ve heard that you’re good at wrestling,” he says. “Women aren’t trained like men where I come from.” “I’m sorry for them,” Clytemnestra replies. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer.

“He likes you,” she says finally. Her green eyes have a flat look, like aging copper. “Can’t he see that I’m pregnant?” Leda shakes her head. “Some men want only the things they cannot have.”

“Men who find solace only in other men are to be distrusted,”

How handsome he looked, how gifted, yet for what? Heroes like him are made of greed and cruelty: they take and take until the world around them is stripped of its beauty.

can make decisions for myself. I do not wish to live in your shadow any longer.” Clytemnestra’s face stings. “How can you say that when you have always been the most beautiful, ever since you were a child?”

They have the look of predators when another takes their meat right before their eyes.

“Chrysanthe,” Timandra says, and her gaze sweetens suddenly, like a peach under the sun.

In my experience, some men—kings and heroes, men loved by the gods—always get what they want. Call it power, obstinacy, or simply unwillingness to accept failure.”

When the tide recedes and leaves something on the sand, one mustn’t worry. Sooner or later, the water will climb again and take it back.

It is strange that she, Clytemnestra, is so used to pain that it doesn’t bother her, as long as it isn’t Helen’s. Why can she bear her own so well yet can’t accept her sister’s?

Dear gods, she thinks, let me be with Chrysanthe forever.

“WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

walls. Clytemnestra knows that the smell will never go away; it has entered too deep.

She keeps talking to Clytemnestra to remind her to stay in the world of the living.

Clytemnestra wakes from the dream, sweat and tears streaming down her face. “My boy didn’t die fighting,” she whispers.

“Do you know the servants who went to Tantalus and brought him to Agamemnon?” Timandra nods. “Good. Bring them to me.”

But it is easy to turn to the weakest when you are racked with pain, to hurt those who can’t defend themselves when you are unable to hurt those who have hurt you.

“You sit there, telling me about lives that were wrongly taken, after you helped a monster murder your grandchild.”

“I do not need you to give me my freedom,” Clytemnestra says. “I am free. But you are not. You are Agamemnon’s puppet now, because you are weak.”

“But know this. I will have my justice. I swear it here and now. I swear it by the Furies and every other goddess who has known vengeance. I will stalk the Atreidai and crush everything they hold dear until only ashes remain.”

“You can take people, cities, armies. But love, respect…those can’t be taken with force.”

The boy dies, but the goddess’s love for him remains. It is a reminder of beauty and resistance in times of adversity. She gazes at Agamemnon and says, “I do not forget.”

“Sooner or later, you will die. And I will not mourn you. I will look at the flames consuming your body, and I will rejoice.”

We will see each other soon. Our lives are being torn apart now, but we will find a way back to each other, just as water always finds its way around rocks.

He will not break her. She will break him.

But then, before he died, he told her that his children were his greatest pride and that he didn’t know how to show them love without violence.

“but he is still your father. Loyalty is a difficult thing.” “It shouldn’t be,” Clytemnestra replies.

“It feels like drowning. As if someone is holding you underwater, and as soon as you give up and prepare to die, that person drags you to the surface, makes you breathe, then pushes you down again.”

She rests her head against the wall as clouds and stars float above her and cries for what her life might have been.

“If you talk about my sister again, I will strangle you in your sleep.”

But vengeance works best when it’s aided by patience. And patience is like a child: it must be nursed so it can grow day after day, feeding on sorrow, until it’s as angry as a bull and as lethal as a poisoned fang.

“All I desire is to serve you, my queen,”

Then I challenge you to fight me, here and now. If you win, you will keep making decisions for the merchants. If I win, you will take your orders from your queen.”

It is hard to tell if they are frightened or just in awe. What is the difference anyway? Her brother used to say that there is none.

“She is ruthless, but at least she never gets hurt.”

“It is noble to be gentle, to save others from pain. But it is also dangerous. Sometimes you have to make life difficult for others before they make it impossible for you.”

Is there any greater torment than love in the face of loss?