And then Iphigenia merges with Elektra in my mind, and I push away the image of my youngest daughter standing before me in the throne room, transformed with a kind of radiance I had not seen in her before, a softness in her stance and a vulnerability so raw in her face that it makes me shudder, as though her fleeting hope pressed hard on a wound that I did not know still hurt. Then the terror in her eyes crystallising when they seized her, this time at my command; how she held me in her gaze. I still feel myself pinioned by her stare, flayed by her accusation. Not now – I won’t think of it.
I won’t allow the heightening of my emotions, so close to Agamemnon’s return. I can’t let them knock me off balance just as I need all of my poise, all of my calm. I cannot afford to be shaken, not when everything I have dreamed of for a decade stands so close before me, at last within my grasp. Everything is ready. When I go into the bath chamber, the scene is set. Nothing has moved in here, nothing has changed. I breathe in the heady fragrance of the flowers, the heavy perfume spilling from their lolling heads. I cut them myself, I bring them here every day, examining each bloom for any sign of wilting. Every petal is thick and velvety, every flower ripe and bursting with eager longing. Every polished marble surface in the room is crowded with them, a dizzying array set to overwhelm the senses. In dishes interspersed among them, oil gleams, and the crushed petals suspended in the dark golden liquid give off yet more scent, which drifts in unseen clouds throughout the chamber. Only a small bowl of fire burns in one corner, casting a dim light, so the shadows loom large and flickering on the far wall, the only space in here that is not lined with ledges of flowers. It is left clear so that anyone reclining in the low, deep bath set beside it can lie back and appreciate the fresco painted upon it.
The deeds of the House of Atreus are rendered there. The divine Olympians, thronging our hall, ready for the feast of Tantalus. How they honour our palace, never dreaming for one moment what foul depravity festers in that cruel father’s heart. Their beautiful, golden faces shine from the plaster; the artist I had commanded had given them glorious life. He had the good sense not to question me, either. These stories might never be told, but I wanted them blazoned here, the men whose blood flows in my husband’s veins, their deeds immortalised in paint and plaster. Not the slaughter of the infant, nor the revulsion of the gods. It was not needed. Everyone knows the grisly feast that awaited them.
From Tantalus, to Pelops, so the fresco moves on to Atreus and Thyestes, who murdered their own brother Chrysippus in their struggle to rule. The painting shows Atreus taking the crown of Mycenae, but not the children of Thyestes boiled and carved up and fed to their father by their own uncle. It shows Agamemnon rising to the throne, his wife and three daughters about him, but no sunrise slaughter. I had told the painter to show only the victories, the events that elevated my husband’s family above all others, knowing all the same that anyone who looked upon it would still think of the darkness and corruption that punctuated these moments, that seeped from the innocent scenes as silently and relentlessly as the fragrance from the flowers permeated the air.
I trace the little painted outline of Iphigenia with my finger. I had thought my heart would be pounding, that the blood would seethe in my veins, that I would tremble with the antici-pation of finishing this at last. Instead, I feel a strange calm settle about me, a certainty that holds me fast to my course. I think again of the still underwater world, how it held me, buoyant and safe, when I kicked through its depths, a carefree girl swimming in the ocean before I ever knew of the House of Atreus at all.
I stroke my daughter’s painted hair and the upward curve of her lips. I hope that among the gloomy shadows of the Underworld, she knows what I will do for her, and that, in the dark, she will smile again.
I sweep through the palace, giving my orders as I go. The confusion is palpable; a bewildered panic sending everyone into a fluster. Everyone except for me. I see myself as though from a distance, gliding smoothly amidst the chaos. I smile into anxious faces, wave away the stuttering starts of questions that no one really dares to ask. I can hear it though, pounding as insistent as a drumbeat. Where is Aegisthus?
They do not know – the elderly men who call themselves advisers, whose words I have never heeded and whose tangible disapproval I have blithely ignored – they cannot understand why I make every preparation to welcome home my husband. They wonder if I plan to pretend the last ten years have not happened, if Aegisthus will melt away as though he was never here. They remember, no doubt, Agamemnon and Menelaus as young men with an army of Spartans behind them, coming to challenge Thyestes in the great throne room I have had bedecked with fine draperies in honour of the king’s return.
I stand and survey the grandeur. I frown. It will not do.
‘You there!’ I gesture at a slave-girl impatiently and she startles to attention at once. ‘These tapestries on the wall, take them down.’ She hovers, momentarily confused. ‘The king has been at war for ten years; he deserves every honour from the moment he arrives home. Lay these on the ground outside, let him walk upon them, cushion his feet from the stony ground with the finest fabrics Mycenae has. He has known no comfort on the sands of Troy; we will treat him as our king – as more than our king. We will give him what he deserves.’
She knows better than to prevaricate. I can hear the keening edge in my voice, the hysteria that threatens to break through my composure at any moment. As she hurries to follow my orders, hissing at the others to help her carry the heavy cloths, I step away from the bustle.
Everything is in place, just as I have planned. Aegisthus hides, his guards hold Elektra, no one else suspects what I have in my heart, and all that is required is my calm and my steadfast purpose to carry me through. I try to slow my racing pulse, to shut out the memory of my daughter’s eyes, to think of nothing but my next step.
In the distance, horns ring out a triumphant blare.
The king returns.
I smooth down my robes, arrange my face into a smile.
Time to welcome him home.
23
Cassandra
The palace is a tomb. I see it rearing from the land, this edifice of monstrous stone, and the reek of death that leeches from its foundations overwhelms the salt scent of the wind.
Yesterday, I watched the dawn from the deck of the ship, where the grim and exhausted survivors of the long voyage gathered in its burning light. The waters glowed red behind us, the sky igniting in monstrous flames. I feared to set foot on the land when we docked. I have never stood on earth that isn’t Trojan soil before. I never dreamed I would be so far from home. I was sick and sore, and I yearned so desperately for the cool stone of Apollo’s temple, its silence and its familiarity.
I don’t know how many weeks we had endured at sea before the storm hit. Even the men knew it was a storm summoned by divine wrath; the fury gathering in the skies was unmistakable. Athena’s belated outrage at the desecration of her temple.
The shrieking wind had whipped the dark ocean into a seething, roiling frenzy around us, every flash of lightning illuminating more carnage, more ships split upon the treacherous rocks, more men swept away. The wide ocean had rung with the screams of dying men before the goddess’s fury was spent. The storm held less terror for me than here; I would rather be at the mercy of the raging waves than standing on Mycenaean earth.
Now, with his palace in sight, Agamemnon once more gathers together his weary survivors and addresses them in a ponderous tone. He speaks of the glory awaiting them here in Greece, the conquering heroes home at last.