A farmer?’ I repeat. She is bristling for a confrontation; I can see it. I keep my voice deliberately neutral. ‘What a surprise.’
She scowls at me. Hardly a joyful bride. But then nothing about this is as it should be. We have become a family who flout the rules, and I can hardly begin to question the absurdity of this – that she should choose her own husband, that he should be so humble – when I think of what I have done. Will I forbid this? I married a king, and look what happened to me. The nobility of his blood did not temper the stain of the curse that ran through it. His riches did not buy him honour or kindness. Why would I want my daughter to follow in any of my footsteps? If Elektra has made her choice for love, I don’t care who she marries. I am fodder enough for the gossips of Mycenae; I hardly fear their judgement of my child.
She is waiting for my condemnation. I think the idea of it excites her far more than the prospect of her wedding. I am so tired, I think, of pitting myself against her. Besides, I have thought of what she said to me beneath the stone lionesses, when the panic of seeing Orestes’ empty chamber had made me think for a moment that she had taken the most terrible revenge she could conceive of. It never crossed her mind to harm her brother. But Aegisthus . . . I have turned what she said about him over and over in my mind. I cannot dismiss it. Any threat to my son most certainly comes from Agamemnon’s usurper. And so, once again, I find myself bound to a man who would kill my child.
Murdering Agamemnon had been my obsession for ten years; the whole of my son’s life. It was as though I walked in my sleep, dreaming of my husband’s death tangling together with Iphigenia’s. Now, I am awake and what I can see disturbs me. My son is gone, far beyond my reach. Elektra knows where, I am sure, but she hates me too much to tell me. If I am ever to see him again, I must soften her. I must make her see that what I have done, I did for her.
And if she marries a farmer in Mycenae, I will still have one child remaining here. Even though she despises me, she will be close at hand. It must mean she does not plan to run away.
‘Do you have nothing to say?’
I realise how long the silence has stretched between us. ‘It is an unusual choice,’ I say. ‘People will talk.’
She flashes me a look of deepest contempt. ‘About me?’
‘If you don’t mind, then neither do I.’
My mildness infuriates her. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You can marry him, if that’s what you want. I hope it will make you happy.’
‘I can never be happy.’ She stares past me, simmering with resentment. I wonder who Georgios even is. I have never cared to look closely at the people working around the palace, have never noticed Elektra stealing away to the fields or talking to anyone. I didn’t know she had a friend, much less a lover. I wonder what he finds charming about my brooding, angry daughter. ‘And Aegisthus?’ she asks, her tone lifting a little. Clearly, she hopes that he might give her the reaction she seems to seek. ‘What will he say?’
‘Why would you care?’ I think she’s surprised at my directness. For years, we have skirted around one another. But since she let out her fury beneath the stone lionesses, I think we have both let go of our caution. It feels reckless, bold, to speak so frankly, but I can’t see the point in any more deception.
‘I suppose he’ll do what you say.’ She sweeps her eyes across me, scathing and quick, but then she smiles a little. ‘Or will he? Does he still do everything you tell him, now he thinks he rules Mycenae himself?’
‘Aegisthus is the king,’ I say placidly. ‘But I am sure that he will hear my plea on your behalf, and he will have compassion for your grief. If you find comfort in your chosen husband, we will not deny you.’
It looks as though a thousand replies are boiling in her throat, but she doesn’t speak. Instead, she wheels around and stalks away from me. With her gone, I let the calm smile drop from my face. I don’t have the confidence in Aegisthus’ reaction that I have just claimed. I have started to wonder about my accomplice in murder, the man I have plotted with, all these years. He is so unlike the brutish, burly husband I dispatched. I saw in him a quiet cunning, not a showy authority. I did not think him a king likely to assert himself too strongly. If I am honest, I thought I had him where I wanted him. It was always me who drove the planning, me who calculated what to do, and how. I never dreamed I would bring a man into the palace who could threaten my children. On his own, Aegisthus would never have taken revenge on Agamemnon. He needed me to do it. So, I can’t think that he would take the initiative, that he would have the stomach to make a plan himself. But I cannot shake what Elektra said to me. I am glad Orestes is gone. He would not be safe in Mycenae. I have walked into a trap of my own making: in order to avenge one child’s death, I have enlisted the help of a frightened man and given him power. And his fear might drive him to lash out, like a cornered animal.
I will need to tell Aegisthus of the marriage in a way that makes it seem to his advantage. I’m turning it over in my head as I go to find him. The afternoon is hot, so I expect he will be sprawled upon a couch in the courtyard. As usual, my instincts are correct. I smile at his ever-present guards as I pass them, and receive nothing back. Much like Elektra’s reception of me. It seems no one in my home is ever very pleased to see me. I perch on the edge of Aegisthus’ couch.
‘I have good news.’ I smile at him, willing him to be swept along with my cheerful demeanour.
‘Has Orestes been found?’ he asks, propping himself up on his elbow.
I suppress a shudder. ‘No, it’s Elektra. She has found a husband.’
‘What?’ Aegisthus’ face creases.
‘She has chosen a farmer by the name of Georgios. She came to tell me today.’
‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘Why would it be?’ I keep my smile steady, as though what I’m saying isn’t utterly preposterous, as though my breezy tone might be enough to convince him.
He pulls himself to sit fully upright, his hands clenched together. ‘How could she choose a husband? What nonsense is this?’
‘I know—’ I begin, but to my amazement, he cuts me off.
‘A girl can’t choose a husband! And she can’t marry a farmer! Have the gods driven the wits clean out of your mind?’ He stares at me, his colour rising. ‘I know that your father gave Helen a choice of suitors, but this isn’t how it is done – and your sister is no good example for anyone.’
‘It isn’t how things are done,’ I agree. ‘But if I did what I was expected to do, I would have handed you over to my guards the night you stole into this palace. I would have waited dutifully for my husband’s return and never breathed a word of recrimination for what he did.’ I draw a long breath. ‘I made no protest when I was told that Iphigenia was to be given to Achilles. It wasn’t my place. And look where my obedience led.’