I saw him breathe a fractional sigh of relief at the prospect of escape. ‘What else do you wish to know?’ he asked.
I leaned forward. ‘Is there news of Helen? My sister – do you know if she lives, if she has been seen?’
‘The Greeks have had sight of her, sometimes,’ he answered. ‘Atop the city walls, among the Trojans, but unmistakable even from afar. She lives, but that is all we know.’
I hadn’t expected to hear anything else. Later, as the palace slept and I prowled, I could not keep my mind from going back to her. In Sparta, the daughter that Helen had left behind grew into a young woman whilst my daughter roamed the shadowy Underworld. Did my sister think of Hermione, just a child when she and Paris had crept under the cover of night to his waiting ship? Hermione was older than Iphigenia had become; the younger cousin had overtaken my child, who would be frozen forever at fourteen. And still her mother dallied in a foreign court, the years slipping through her fingers, never to be regained. If my daughter dwelt anywhere in this world, no army or ocean could stop me from reaching her. But Helen stayed away.
I sighed impatiently. And then, from somewhere in the void, I heard the urgent press of whispers. I stiffened, held myself still, and strained to hear.
Deep, gruff, male voices. Not quavering with age or high with youth. My breath caught fast in my throat. Alongside the voices, I could hear the muffled thump and drag of an inert object. Some cursing as they shifted it, and then a low snort of suppressed laughter, harsh and mirthless. Somewhere in the darkness, their footsteps faded into nothing. The wind sighed across the sea and silence settled again.
I stayed out there until dawn began to seep into the sky, dull and ghostly on the horizon.
I slept through the early hours of the day. When I rose, the busy hustle of the morning had calmed to a quiet hum as usual. As I made my way down the corridor towards the throne room, I passed Aegisthus’ guards in a huddle. Their eyes flickered over me as I walked. The low growl of their voices, the bristle of their hulking posture, served as a reminder to anyone at Mycenae who might have thought to question the presence of my consort. I had been reassured by the promise of their protection whilst we waited. But we had waited so long. I doubted that it was respect I saw in their ever-lengthening stares, respect for the queen who had made them guards of a king. Was it restlessness I noted?
My certainty never wavered. But my patience was wearing thin. I wondered if theirs was, too; if the stasis in which we perched, awaiting the end of one battle so that we might fight our own, was stretching everyone’s tolerance to its limits.
I slipped into the anteroom. Through the columns ahead of me, I could see Aegisthus leaning back against the cushions heaped upon his throne.
‘Clytemnestra?’ He straightened, squinted at me through the columns.
I entered the great hall. Between us, the flames flickered in the round hearth in the centre of the room. Four pillars stood around it, and the smoke spiralled up to the blue square of open sky directly above it, a break in the ornate painted patterns that repeated across the ceiling. The pillars were painted in a soft, gold-tinged cream. Each tile of the floor was edged in warm, fiery orange. And across every wall, wild beasts and monsters cavorted in elaborate frescoes, tossing their heads and stamping their hooves; frozen waves stood poised in painted oceans, whilst men and gods strode among it all, bordered in vivid, swirling motifs. History swelled and pressed upon me in this room from every angle; the deeds of the past presented as feats and triumphs to proclaim far and wide. The bloodstain had faded on the floor before this very hearth, but we both saw it every day, as bright as if the blood had just been spilled.
‘Did our guest board the ship this morning?’ I asked. ‘It is a long voyage to Etruria; he will not return before . . . he will not return soon.’
Aegisthus smiled. ‘He was gone before morning.’
I hesitated. Was there an unfamiliar note in his voice? I scrutinised his face. ‘He brought us welcome news. An end in sight to this war.’ An end in sight to our waiting. My fists curled at my sides. ‘I was glad to reward him for that.’
‘He was well rewarded.’ It was more of a smirk than a smile.
I was about to speak, but I saw his eyes dart to the entrance from the anteroom. I turned quickly. ‘Elektra?’
She stood awkwardly, framed between two columns.
‘Elektra?’ I said again. I heard the sharpness in my tone, the irritation I never managed to suppress. There was nothing but waiting in our lives now; did she have to add to it by lingering in silence before beginning any conversation? It pressed on the raw edge of my nerves and made me harsh, although I had resolved, time and time again, to be more soft, more patient.
‘Is Hector truly dead?’ she asked.
‘He is,’ I answered.
‘Then the war will end at last.’ Her voice cracked.
‘Troy cannot stand without its greatest warrior,’ I said.
She lifted her eyes to me. ‘Then my father will come home.’
‘He will.’
Her gaze slid to Aegisthus, and I felt him tense behind me. The silence stretched taut and quivering in the hall. I could not stand it. ‘Is that all?’ I snapped.
‘That’s all,’ she said, a slight smile lifting her mouth as she looked at Aegisthus, and she walked away.
My head ached. I turned back to Aegisthus. I wished I could crawl back into my bed and sleep the day away. The smoke from the fire in the central hearth stung my eyes, and I saw him through a watery haze. ‘So. No word should reach Agamemnon of – the situation here in Mycenae, before he arrives.’
The grey wisps spiralled towards the opening in the roof, escaping into the sky.
‘No word will reach him. I am sure of that.’ He shifted his gaze towards the cluster of guards that I had passed at the entrance.
I remembered the whispers outside the palace walls in the depths of night. The shifting sound of something heavy dragged across the ground. Aegisthus’ face, different now.
His demeanour, now that the wait was nearly over, was not more anxious, as I had anticipated. He wasn’t shrinking away. He looks ready, I thought.
And I wondered why that did not bring me any comfort.
19
Cassandra
‘Paris is wounded! He is wounded!’
The shouting echoed up and down the gathering dusk through the streets of Troy. In the temple of Apollo, I turned my head towards the sound, startled.
Paris had been a dead man walking since Hector had fallen. He’d had his moment of glory on the battlefield the day that one of his arrows had miraculously lodged itself deep in Achilles’ foot. The poison-coated tip had done its work from there. It was the first time my sleek, handsome brother had distinguished himself on the battlefield; here, in the dying days of war, when it seemed that barely anyone cared any more what happened. Achilles, when his wrath had burned out, had fought a bleak and desultory fight. His grief shone from him; the baleful heart of a star collapsing into white ashes. He roamed the plains in search of his own death; that was why Paris’ arrow was at last able to find its target. Achilles welcomed it. And so, Paris was fêted briefly in our halls; at the meagre remnants of the feasts we used to have that Priam and Hecabe attempted now. Hector’s empty chair, Andromache’s blank face, my parents’ glazed eyes – it only made the contrast to those past celebrations more stark.
I had lost track of the days some time ago. Now the shouting resolved itself into clear words and I understood. So, today was Paris’ time to die. Ten years too late.
My parents would grieve. For them, I would go to the palace, even if there were no words of solace left. But when I stepped out from between the pillars, into the soft evening air, it was Helen that I saw.
‘Where has he fled?’ she asked.