He was a son. A baby boy, whose arrival I had thought would crumble the cold shell of my existence and leave me squirming in the harsh sunlight, exposed and raw. The truth of it, perhaps, was worse, for whilst I braced myself against the agony of love and grief renewed, I held my baby and felt nothing at all.
He gave us some version of normality, I suppose. I could not lie, dull with pain, all day any longer. He was only a baby, and I pitied him the lifetime that awaited him. I had not dreamed I would bring my children into a world that could drain their blood in the light of dawn before they’d had a chance to live at all. I felt a swell of sympathy for a blameless infant born to parents such as Agamemnon and me: his father a monster beyond all imagining, and me, his mother, unable to summon a scrap of the devotion I had lavished on my girls. It was a mechanical kind of mothering I brought to Orestes. I cradled him and fed him and kissed his tiny face, but I did not build his future in dreams. I handed him off to the nurses whenever I could. I did not turn to the smoking altars in the city and pray he would be granted a life. I knew those prayers would go unheard. Every mother in Mycenae made these fervent bargains – not just that their babies be spared plague and fever, but that their husbands would sail home from Troy. That latter prayer, I joined. But it was the only entreaty I would make of the gods now. Better for Iphigenia if she had succumbed to sickness before she could talk, before she could dream of her future herself.
So, I tended to the baby when I had to, and left my chamber to resume my other maternal duties, though Chrysothemis and Elektra could see through my tired attempts; the numbing shroud that lay about my heart. To what end did I teach them to weave or dance or sing? How did I know I did not raise another child for slaughter? If the tide turned on the Trojan beaches, if Agamemnon’s army was beaten back, would a mob charge the palace for innocent blood to pay the price to the ravenous gods once more? The thought of such pain again was a burning brand to my flesh. Better to protect myself, to hide behind the only armour I could construct. I looked over my children’s heads; I stared past them and did not listen when they talked. I wanted no more tender memories to shred my heart when they too were taken from me.
Besides, Agamemnon had left a gulf behind him. Not only was the king gone from Mycenae, but all the men of fighting age. He had taken them with him, determined to have the best and most powerful force among the Achaeans. All that was left in Mycenae were the older men, too frail for war, and boys too young and raw to go. I heard the old men, plaintive and fretting when I walked by. How to run the kingdom, how to arbitrate every dispute, how to manage the stocks and stores for the winter ahead when the men would still be at Troy. How to defend ourselves against marauders, when they saw how unprotected our king had left us in his eagerness to win glory on foreign shores. I paused behind the pillars of the throne room, hearing the anxious whine of the men’s voices. Down the corridor, the scatter of my daughters’ laughter echoed. I searched for the note of Iphigenia’s voice among them before I could stop myself, before I could shield myself. I flinched away from them, turned on my heel and strode into the great, airy chamber of the throne room before I could think.
The men’s eyes were upon me; part-imploring, part-suspicious. I heard the flutter of childish footsteps; the girls had passed by, leaving blessed silence in their wake.
If Agamemnon, despite his fragile ego and fierce vanity, had managed Mycenae, it certainly was not beyond me to do it.
My voice rang out, the echo in the vaulted space making me sound harder and more imperious than I expected. ‘Mycenae struggles in the absence of the men.’ Every movement careful and deliberate, I took my place upon the throne beside Agamemnon’s empty seat. I smoothed my dress, ran my gaze across each expectant and uncertain face. ‘It needs a leader.’ I let my words sink in. ‘So why don’t you bring the most pressing of the problems to me and I will give you my commands.’
They might have bristled, might have protested. But their faces betrayed relief instead. No one wanted to be the one to face Agamemnon on his return and explain to our furious king why his riches had been plundered and his power squandered whilst he was away. They were glad to have someone willing to take the blame. And I was glad, so passionately grateful, to have problems before me that had solutions, to set my mind on something with a purpose and an answer: anything to stop it wandering down dark and winding tunnels to a place I could never reach in search of something I could never have.
Some of the fog that had hung about me since Aulis at last began to lift. But the resolve that had been with me since I stood on that beach beside my daughter’s funeral pyre, that did not soften. It burned within me, an inextinguishable flame. I preserved his kingdom, not to present to him upon his return, but to keep as my own.
12
Cassandra
Paris kept Helen cloistered at first. I didn’t know whether it was a glimmering of shame at last, a discomfort when he looked into our father’s lined face, creased anew with worry at what this wayward son of Troy had done. Or perhaps my brother just feared that someone else might steal her away, take the opportunity that he had seized in Sparta. But he couldn’t resist bringing her out for long. What was the point in having the most beautiful woman in the world as your wife if no one else could see her?
She was charming, too. I watched her in the halls of the palace, observed the ease with which she would talk to everyone. She treated Priam and Hecabe with a deferential respect, and whilst my mother’s eyes stayed shaded with suspicion, I could see my father relax in her presence. I watched her engage Hector in conversation, his smiles genuine as far as I could see. I wondered how many times he had considered bundling her on to a ship laden with gold and sending her back to her husband with our most fervent apologies. It must have crossed his mind. But Priam had accepted her, and he was our king. The days passed and still no sign of Greek vengeance bore down on the horizon.
I stayed away from her. I felt embarrassed that I had torn her veil when she first arrived, ashamed that whatever she had heard of Paris’ mad sister was undoubtedly proven true the moment she met me. When I felt the warmth of her gaze upon me and suspected that she was about to speak, I fled. It wasn’t until she came to the temple of Apollo that I first spoke to her at all.
She was unmistakable as she made her way across the path towards the entrance. I was in the shadows, half hidden behind a pillar as I watched her come. The breeze stirred her dress, sending it rippling around her legs. She stepped so lightly, like a cloud drifting through our city, sculpted into a perfect human shape, but no more substantial than air. Something we might never take hold of, something that might float away at any moment, beyond our reach. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Her gaze was demurely downcast, her arms heaped with flowers that I supposed she brought to offer the god. It was prudent of her to seek the favour of our patron immortal, to bind herself to Troy and its protectors. The whims of Aphro-dite alone wouldn’t be enough to keep her and Paris safe.
She didn’t look up until she was at the steps. When she did, she smiled as though surprised to see me, but I was sure she had known I was watching her the whole length of the path.
‘Cassandra,’ she greeted me. Her voice was full of sincerity and warmth.
I tried to meet her eyes, but my gaze darted away. A tiny lizard flitted across the warm stone, between the bars of sunlight and shadow that filtered through the columns of the temple. It paused, holding itself in perfect stillness as though it too awaited my response. I didn’t know how to speak to her at all.