It's the gods' own day—bright and beautiful, not a cloud in the clear blue sky—and Agamemnon has been cloistered with the messenger for most of today, trying to get some sense out of the man. He almost wishes Menelaus would come himself about things like this; fond as he is of his younger brother, Menelaus has no concept of planning or timing. He makes it sound as if it's war already; Agamemnon has explained repeatedly, as patiently as he possibly can (since it is, after all, not the messenger's fault) that it will take time to raise an army, provision it, and get it to Troy, and that's not even addressing what will happen once they get there.

"Tell your master," Agamemnon says, "that while I'm sorry to hear that Helen's run off, and I'll do all I can to help, it's not going to be overnight. While you're headed back to Sparta, I'll send word to Argos—it's the nearest city to me—and get the muster going. Tell him I said to take stock of his men and see how many ships he can reasonably load without straining himself, or the city." Privately, he runs a few mental calculations: seventy-five ought to do for Mycenae. No, eighty. Is that too few? He has to look good, after all; Mycenae isn't a sea power as such, but it wouldn't do for him to set a poor example. People would talk.

He'd ask Clytemnestra, but he has the unnerving feeling that she'll have an answer ready for him, and that it will be exactly the right one. Agamemnon suspects, though he's never been able to prove, that she reads all his mail and intercepts all the messengers.

He chats with the envoy a while longer, repeating the points he wants Menelaus to take away from all of this, before sending him on his way. "You must be tired. Sit a while and rest; I'll have Halaesus fix you up with something to eat. There's no hurry, of course." It's a polite lie. "Ask your master to keep me posted." Clear directions: that's what Menelaus needs.

That's what the entire loosely-knit confederation that calls itself Achaia is going to need, if Agamemnon is completely honest with himself. Well, somebody's got to do it, and he's the man for the task. He sacked Lydia as a young man, after all, and he and Menelaus completely trashed Uncle Thyestes even before that. (Never mind that they were young and green and needed King Tyndareus' help to do it.) Once the kings are made to see the gravity of the situation, they'll recognize that they can't possibly do it without him. There's too much internecine quarreling: Argos against Tiryns, Tiryns against Corinth, everybody against Athens…They need him, for heaven's sake.

After the messenger is seen out, and after he's been poring over old records (he really ought to pull it together and organize a census one of these days; you can't tell how many people are living in Mycenae and environs now), Clytemnestra lets herself in. She is dressed in a peplos as pale as the column next to which she stands, so that he doesn't see her at first, until she moves and says, "Hello."

Agamemnon starts. "Oh! Hello, Clytie, didn't see you. Come on in." He nearly upsets a pile of maps in trying to find a seat for her; her slender arms are strong and sure, and she grips them, pushes them back into place. "Thanks. I, uh, had an envoy from Menelaus today. Did you know your sister's flown the coop?"

Nothing fazes Clytemnestra, and he's disappointed when she betrays no shock; she presses her lips into thin, straight lines, frowning. "She is an utter idiot," she remarks; her voice is always low, with the faint hint of scorn that seems to pervade it more and more these days. "How abominably stupid and selfish of her."

"I guess it'll be a big mess for your poor dad to clean up," Agamemnon says, and the dark eyes transfix him with an expression he can't name, and isn't sure he likes.

"Rather. And for you too."

He could have sworn she was still abed when the messenger came. "Beg pardon, honey?"

"Don't play the fool with me. It's going to be war now. It can hardly be anything else."

"Well, we can still hope—"

"For glory," Clytemnestra says. "There is none in diplomacy." She smiles smugly, as if to say, Checkmate, and Agamemnon finds himself disarmed. He has been married to her for years; he has never really known her.

Trying to recoup, he shrugs expansively. "We haven't exhausted all the alternatives yet. It's possible this was just—"

"I think not," she says, picking at an imaginary shred of lint on her peplos. "This sort of thing isn't just an accident, Agamemnon, or a misunderstanding. This was premeditated."

He'd like to draw her out, take her into his confidence, ask what she thinks; he opens his mouth and finds those dark, brooding eyes on him, and thinks better of it. "I don't…Hey, uh, look, Clytie, someone's got to watch this place when we go to war."

"I should be glad to help, of course," Clytemnestra says.

"I'd be glad of your help." It feels like the first honest thing he's said in a long while. "I…I'll leave you in charge."

Her brows rise, perfect, feathery arches. "Alone?"

"Sure. Look, you're a good manager. And some of Dad's advisers are too old to go; you'd have them if you needed anything."

Clytemnestra thinks, or pretends to think. After a long pause, she says, "If you insist. We must all make sacrifices for the war effort, of course."

Would she really rather be home with the kids? How would he know? "If you don't think you can—"

"No, I shall manage. The alternative is worse." The name hangs unspoken in the air between them. "But I should like you to do one thing before you leave, whenever that will be."

"Anything I can do to help you out, of course." This is familiar territory; Agamemnon leans back, resting a foot on the table leg, hands spread expansively.

"See to Aegisthus, won't you?" She leans in, her voice very low. "He eyes me."