I doubt anyone wanted to love this book more than I did; I ordered a hardcover from the British Isles because I didn’t want to wait until December when I could’ve just checked it out from the library. Yet here we are, and I am sad.
This was supposed to be an exhilarating and bloody story of vengeance, one of the most famous Iliad-adjacent tales in the literary canon. I was so ready for it, having adored the first book in this trilogy that freshly retold the Iliad from Briseis’ perspective, and even enjoying the aftermath of the bloody war in the second book, though I found that sequel lacking. In that book, we were just biding our time, waiting for the winds, grieving the fallen. Surely the story of the fabulous, wrathful Clytemnestra—the mother of sacrificed Iphigenia, the sister of the much-maligned Helen, and the wife of the prideful Agamemnon—would deliver. And somehow, this is what we got.
To call this book blunt and unsubtle would be an understatement. These characters aren’t interesting, flawed people; they’re twitter posts. After the magnificently written, PTSD-suffering Achilles from the first book, I was so bored by the PTSD-suffering Agamemnon. He drinks heavily, relies on narcotics to sleep, and sees his dead daughter in the shadows. Who cares about his suffering? I don’t.
The story is meant to be a thriller, with suspense and that classic "bomb under the table" tension—characters unaware of their fate while the reader anticipates the explosion. Only the suspense never materializes. Cassandra knows, and she doesn’t care; the book needed an atmosphere of dread, something a more careful writer could have delivered.
Ritsa and Clytemnestra essentially share the same voice, despite one of them being the queen. Clytemnestra should be seething with fury, yet she comes across as resigned and bored; and somehow jealous. The dialogues are filled with awkward exchanges. Anachronistic slang that hadn’t bothered me before felt jarring here. I found the book tedious, lacking in intelligence or novelty—nothing about it felt fresh or insightful. I kept waiting for a murder to finally happen, hoping it would jolt the story into higher gears fitting for the high drama of the myth, yet it was endlessly delayed and when it finally happened, the story just petered out.
Or maybe it’s even simpler than that: I just wanted to like anyone in this book, and I did not. Bah!