“Still, that doesn’t make me like you.”
He ignores her. “And I see that Leon is gone as well. Did he leave you after you lied to him about Aegisthus? He always had a soft spot for you.”
She keeps her voice calm. “Leon was faithful to me because he saw that you are greedy and cruel, heartless and vicious.”
He laughs. “Go on, keep hating me. But future generations will hate you as much—the woman who slept with the enemy, the queen who disrespected her elders, the wife who didn’t submit to her husband.”
The words are blades, cutting her skin. “And how will they hate the man who murdered his own daughter?” she whispers.
He shakes his head. “Your father once told me that our lives are nothing more than a fight among those who have the power, those who want it, and the people who find themselves in the middle—casualties, sacrifices, call them whatever you want.”
Her eyes find his. “So my daughter was a casualty to you.”
“She was my daughter too, and I mourned her.”
“You murdered her!”
He rests his head back, exposing his thick neck. “Calchas played with my mind. But we sailed for Troy, and then we won.” A drop of sweat trickles down his face. “Now I need to deal with Aegisthus. Then all our enemies will have been destroyed.”
Her throat is raw, but she forces herself to speak. “And what about my enemies?”
He is staring at the ceiling when she throws the wet cloth at him. It sticks to his face, blinding him, and before he can grab it, she draws her dagger from her sleeve and plunges it into his arm. He makes a choking noise. She pulls it out, and blood spatters on her face. Grunting, he tosses the cloth aside. There is energy in his eyes, like rage and pleasure together. She knows that expression—it is the fervency that takes hold of him before he hurts others. Still, she isn’t careful enough. When her arm strikes to stab him again, he takes the blade in his hand, stopping her. His eyes are wild. With his other hand, he punches her in the face so hard that her head smacks the wall. For a moment, she loses her balance, her sight blurred. She takes a few steps back, feeling the wall under her hand.
Agamemnon is standing in the tub, water drops falling down his naked body, his hands a bloody mess. He is smiling like a madman, looking at his wounded arm with amusement.
“Did you think I wasn’t ready for this?” he says, breath rasping in his throat. “You have always been difficult, Clytemnestra. The things I have to do to make you learn your place . . .”
She moves forward again, each limb tense with rage. Her blade only tips at the hollow of his throat before he grabs her hair and throws her sideways. He is stronger than she remembered. She falls, sliding on the stones away from him. He steps out of the tub, and water wets the floor. The knife has fallen out of her hand and is now between them, shiny in the feeble light. She crawls toward it.
“When will you ever understand?” he says. Her hand reaches out, but he kicks it with his foot. There is the sound of bones breaking and she screams.
“You can’t kill me,” he says, and on his face, there is a small smile. “We’re one and the same.”
She can hardly breathe for the pain. Her hand is swelling, fingers twisted like tree roots. No false steps. No mistakes.
He bends to pick up the dagger, and she throws herself against him with all her strength. Together, they drop down, and she manages to take the knife. This time, she sticks it into his chest. The sound he makes is of utter surprise. It gives her pleasure, and she twists the blade deeper inside.
“Aegisthus might be weak and broken,” she says, “but at least he can love.”
He tries to grab her, but she stops his hand with her knee, pinning him to the floor.
“You do not know loyalty or affection.” His eyes are wide, and for the first time since she has known him, he looks afraid. “You will die alone, as you have been all your life, killed by your own wife. You see the irony in that? You take things from people, and sometimes they take things back from you.”
She stabs his chest again and again until his ragged breath stops. Even then, there is no peace. She stands, her body red with her husband’s blood, and looks down at him. His eyes are open but empty, his lips parted. He doesn’t look like a king, his large body slumped gracelessly on the floor. He looks like a nameless beggar.
*
Bathhouse
Electra takes the hood off her face and stops to think behind a painted column at the entrance to the palace. She has been following Aegisthus ever since he escaped from the dungeon, but now that he has gone into the garden, she doesn’t know where to go.
She wasn’t surprised to find him sneaking around. She suspected he would try to do something as soon as her father returned, and even when her mother threw him into a cell, something hadn’t seemed quite right.
She crept out of her room when Aileen and Chrysothemis fell asleep. She crushed some herbs into the guards’ cups of wine and looked at them as they slumped on their stools, spittle at the corners of their mouths.
Noises are coming from the dining hall, and she slips past the door to peep inside. A few men are stumbling around, sweat pouring down their arms, the house dogs eating leftovers at their feet. Two servant women are standing among them, their tunics torn, their eyes staring blankly.
Electra retreats into the shadows before anyone can see her. Agamemnon isn’t here. She quietly walks toward the baths, her mind buzzing. Her father has committed a horrible crime, it is true, but as much as she wills herself to hate him, she can’t. Maybe it is because she has always been his favorite, the only child he actually paid attention to. Orestes was too generous, Iphigenia too competitive, Chrysothemis too shy. And after all, they already had Clytemnestra’s love. But Electra has always been too quiet, selfish, defiant. It couldn’t have been easy for her mother to love her. Yet her father would always talk to her, ask her questions when her siblings weren’t around. It made her feel special.
She is close to the baths when she slips. Her back hits the floor, and when she pulls herself up, her hands are red. She gasps.
Aegisthus is dead is the first thought that comes to mind, though she knows that he can’t be here. She moves into the bathhouse slowly, her breath held, like a slave walking toward the altar where he must be whipped.
There is water everywhere, and the torches have burned out, shadows circling overhead like crows waiting. Electra limps to the center of the room, her ankle hurting. There is a naked body in front of her, and she brings her hand to it. It is cold and wet. She passes her fingers over the wounds on his chest, blood drying and crusting.
She remains there for a long time, her shoulders hunched, like wings. The world around her is too quiet. Finally tears come, like winter rains, flooding her heart.
“Father,” she whispers. “Father, please, wake up.”
*
Darkness
Clytemnestra runs back to the temple of Hera, eager to find the Trojan girl and take her somewhere safe. The palace is silent, each corridor flooded with darkness. She has ordered the guards to feast and rest tonight, and now they must be sleeping, half drunk next to their lovers.
She is already in the garden when she hears a shout. It is coming from the temple, and she hurries in its direction, her bare feet still wet. At the entrance, Aegisthus stops her. He is holding his sword, and there is madness in his eyes. She tries to walk past him, but he holds on to her. His hands are sticky with blood, though he doesn’t look hurt.
“It is done,” he says.
She feels a numbness coming over her. “Where is Cassandra?” she asks.
She can see a small shape at the foot of the columns, curled up like an infant. She pushes Aegisthus aside and runs to it, face contorted. When she bends over the body, she sees that her throat is slashed. Her skin is still warm, though life is ebbing away.