*
Clytemnestra sensed him before she heard the stamp of men’s boots on hard rocks. She would have known – even without her watchmen and their beacons of rage – that Agamemnon was nearby. The birds still sang, the cicadas still buzzed, the breeze still moved the dry yellowing grasses around her palace. But she knew something had changed: she could feel the heat glowing inside her. She took a breath and held it, closed her eyes for a moment. She gave the word to her slaves, and they ran to do her rehearsed bidding. The tapestries came down off the walls, and were carried to the front gates of the palace. The slaves stood in fours, each holding a corner of the dark purple cloth which seemed to glisten in the unaccustomed sunlight.
The day was hot and dry, the breeze bringing none of the cool sea air up to her citadel. She could taste the dust, kicked up by the feet of soldiers who were marching from their ship to their home. The path curved up the hill from the shore, so they heard the men before they saw them. When they came around the final corner, she had her slaves perform obeisance and she herself bowed low. She held the pose for a moment before straightening her back to see her husband for the first time since their eyes met across the body of their daughter in Aulis, ten years earlier.
How small he seemed. Her memory had made him taller, she supposed. And if the years had made her leaner, they had made him greyer. And paunchy. She wondered how a man could get fat during a war. He was red-faced, sweating in his ludicrous regalia. What kind of man wore a bronze breastplate and a plumed helmet to return home? One who believed that his power was seated in his costume, she supposed. The red leather of his scabbard was very fine, studded with gold flecks. She did not recognize it, and realized this must be part of his share of the fabled wealth of Troy. To have killed her child for a decorated bit of animal skin. She could feel the contempt shaping her mouth into a sneer, and stopped herself. Now was not the time to lose control. That would come later.
The Argive men had not escaped the war without casualties. She tried to calculate how many men Agamemnon had lost: a quarter, a third? Some had died noble deaths on the battlefield, she knew. They had been interred by their comrades, their armour shared out among those to whom it could still do some good. Some had died of disease: a plague incurred by Agamemnon – of course – with his refusal to respect a priest of Apollo. She had laughed when she heard about the plague, laughed until her face hurt, in bed with Aegisthus, where laughter was safe. All her husband had to do to keep Apollo’s favour was not rape his priestesses or the daughters of his priests. It was laughable in the dark hours of the night, even as she sent messages of condolence by day to the Mycenaeans who wept to discover their son, their father, their brother had been culled by the Archer’s arrows. Agamemnon was so magnificently self-absorbed, he could not even see that the simplest abstinence would have kept his men safe. He was like a spoiled child, grabbing at things because he wanted them, with no thought for anyone else, not even a god. The arrogance was remarkable.
Some of the men nursed injuries from the Trojan battles: missing limbs, missing eyes. Livid purple scars spilled across arms and faces; sores and ulcers wept from wounds which would not heal. Clytemnestra found herself wondering if their wives would want these damaged creatures back. Would she have welcomed home a cripple? She thought for a moment, and decided she would not. But still she was sure that she would have preferred any one of these ruined men to her own husband.
And in the very centre of the group, just behind Agamemnon, surrounded by his men, she saw the priestess. It was all she could do not to laugh. Was this his trophy from the war, while his brother took Helen, daughter of Zeus and Leda? She was barely more than a child, though she wore her priestess’s robes, the fillets around her hair waving as she walked. Her mouth moved all the time, Clytemnestra noticed, as though she were muttering words without pause. She was smaller, darker than Iphigenia had been at the same sort of age. Clytemnestra had done this every time she had seen a girl in the past ten years: was she taller or shorter than Iphigenia, with more or less beautiful eyes? Did she carry herself with the same poise that Iphigenia always had? Would her skin look as radiant in a saffron gown, would her hair flow as copiously down her shoulders, would her feet move as neatly as she danced, would . . .
She drove her fingernails into her palms to break the thought. Iphigenia would not rest uneasy for much longer.
The men came to a halt before her, and she bowed again.
‘Husband,’ she said. ‘Welcome home.’
‘Clytemnestra, get up,’ he said. ‘You behave as though I am your barbarian king.’
Nothing else. No apology, no affection, nothing. There was – Clytemnestra was honest enough to admit to herself – nothing he could have said or done that would have saved him. But it was lazy of him not to even try. As though he wanted to be killed. Or – she considered a second possibility – the gods wanted him to be killed. That was surely it.
She stood up, and waved her hands at her slave women. ‘Lay the tapestries down,’ she said. ‘My husband will enter his home on a stream of red, the blood of the barbarians he has crushed.’
The women surged forward, laying the glistening red tapestries on the ground.
‘What are you doing, woman?’ Agamemnon looked around him, to see if his men were shocked by this fawning display. Their faces remained still and it made him pause. Was it not such a peculiar thing his wife was doing? ‘Only gods would walk on such brocade,’ he hissed. ‘Men must walk on the sandy earth.’
‘You would walk on them if a god ordered it,’ she said. A silent shudder seemed to pass over them all, as though Poseidon had tapped his trident on the ground, feather-light.
Agamemnon looked at his wife’s impassive face to see if she intended the meaning he had just heard. He had sacrificed their daughter because Artemis ordered it. No one would ever be able to call him impious: he obeyed the gods even when they demanded terrible things of him. Even when they demanded his eldest child, he did not hesitate to do as the priests instructed. It was Zeus’ will that Troy should fall, everyone knew it. And if the price was his daughter, then his only choice was to sacrifice her himself, or let someone else do it. He had done the courageous thing, but he found himself wondering if his wife realized that. Perhaps she would have preferred it if some other Argive had taken his knife to the girl.
‘I would do anything the gods ordered,’ he said. ‘As would all wise men.’
‘If the message was given to you by a priest?’ she asked.
Again, he searched her face, looking for the signs of contempt around her mouth. But her eyes were fixed modestly on the ground, and he could see no trace of her feelings.
‘Yes,’ he answered. The priest, Calchas, had delivered the message that his daughter must be sacrificed. Agamemnon had raged at him, threatened to cut him down or at least lock him up, but Menelaus had reasoned with his brother, explained that someone must take the girl’s life. He even offered to do it himself – Agamemnon still thought well of his brother for this kindness – but in the end, it had not been necessary.
‘And what do you think Priam would have done in your position?’ she asked.
Priam had never been in his position. The old man had lost his war, lost his city and lost his life. Dragged screaming from an altar, someone had told Agamemnon. Pitiful old creature. After all those years of war, Agamemnon thought the Trojan king would have had the courage to die like a warrior instead of crawling on the ground like an insect.
‘He would have marched upon the purple weave, likening himself to the gods,’ he replied.
‘So he did not fear the comparison with a god, in the way that you do?’ she asked.
‘He was an arrogant man.’
‘Kings are often arrogant men,’ Clytemnestra said. ‘It is what reminds the rest of us that they are kings. Walk on the tapestries, now we have laid them out for you so carefully. Reward us for our gratitude that you have returned. Do as we beg of you, so we know that you are gracious
in victory, as you have never had to be in defeat.’
Agamemnon sighed and looked down at his feet. He gestured at the slave women who had placed their beautiful crimson burdens on the ground. ‘Not in these old boots, at any rate,’ he said. ‘One of you help me to take them off. If I am to walk on the blood of my enemies, I shall do it with my feet bare, in honour of the gods.’
The women looked over to their queen, who nodded. They rushed to the feet of their king, and unlaced his old leather boots. It was impossible to say what colour they had once been: red, brown, tan? The mud of the Trojan peninsula had soaked into them, and the sand of the Trojan shore had worn them away.
A moment later, the king stood in front of his ancestral palace, in front of his men, in front of his wife. His nut-brown legs ended with strangely pale feet, like creatures that had lived only in the dark. The king looked down and laughed at the incongruity. ‘There was never a good time to take boots off in Troy,’ he said, looking around at his men for agreement. They were beginning to disperse, peeling off from the edges of the group to rejoin their own families. Agamemnon gave a small nod, convincing himself that he was granting them permission to leave.
Clytemnestra opened her arms and gestured at the carpet. ‘Walk, king,’ she said. ‘Walk on the blood of your enemies, trample them into the ground. Walk on the wealth you have won for your house. Walk on the tides of blood which sailed with you back from Troy. Walk.’
And Agamemnon crossed the crimson ground and disappeared into the palace.
*
‘You too,’ Clytemnestra said to the priestess. ‘Come inside.’ The girl did not respond. The queen turned to one of her maidservants. ‘What did he say she was called?’
‘He didn’t say.’
Clytemnestra clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Not the king. The messenger who told us the king was on his way.’
The maidservant thought for a moment, but could not find an answer.
‘Go ahead,’ Clytemnestra said. ‘Heat the water for the king’s bath.’
‘Yes, madam.’ The girl ran into the palace.
‘The rest of you, take these inside and place them back where they belong,’ Clytemnestra said. ‘Don’t forget to brush off the dust.’
The women gathered up their tapestries and shook them gently in the breeze before rolling them up and carrying them indoors.
A few people were still milling around outside the palace, but Clytemnestra ignored them. The old men of Mycenae did not know where to go now their king had returned but their sons had not. But what could she do to help them? Their loss was no greater than her own.
‘You, girl.’ She spoke to the priestess again. ‘Come on.’ Cassandra was gazing at the palace roof, an expression of utter horror on her face. Startled, Clytemnestra turned to follow her gaze, but there was nothing there. ‘What can you see?’ she asked. As she spoke the words, she realized that she could not remember the last time she had been curious about someone else. She had wanted to know specific information of course, not least Agamemnon’s whereabouts and health. But she had no recollection of being interested in anyone else’s views on anything for ten years at least. Perhaps longer.
‘I can see them dancing,’ Cassandra said quietly. She waited for the slap that her mother would have given her, but Clytemnestra merely looked again at the roof and then back at the priestess. She did not seem angry, only intrigued.
‘Who can you see dancing?’ she asked.
‘Black. Three black creatures, black fire licking around them. Why isn’t the roof alight? All those black flames kissing it and teasing it, why doesn’t it catch fire?’
‘I don’t know,’ the queen replied. ‘Why doesn’t it catch fire?’
Cassandra shook her head, chewing at her lips with tiny frantic bites. ‘Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know,’ she said. ‘Not real fire, it must not be real fire. Is it real? Can you see them now? Can you see the women dancing in the fire? Can you hear them screaming? Can you hear the hissing of the flames and the snakes?’
The queen thought carefully about her next question. ‘Are they screaming because of the fire?’
‘No, not the fire. The fire doesn’t burn them. The fire is them. Do you understand? They are wreathed in fire, they bathe in fire. They do not scream for it. They scream for justice. No, not justice, that is not right. It is something like justice, but stronger. What is it?’ Cassandra flicked her gaze at the queen before turning it back to the roof, which still held her attention.
‘Did you say it was black fire?’
‘Yes! Yes, yes, yes!’ Cassandra screamed. ‘Black fire. That’s it. Can you see it?’ Knowing this would be her last day, having known it for so long, one thing she had never expected to feel was hope. But the sudden sense that another person might be able to see what she could see made her feel it nonetheless. It had been so long since she had been able to share anything with anyone.
‘No, I don’t have your gift,’ the queen said. ‘But I know what it is you see. Women wreathed in black fire? Those are the Furies.’
‘Yes!’
‘And it is not justice they scream for,’ she said. ‘It is vengeance.’
‘That’s it. They scream for vengeance, and their snakes are screaming, too. Their jaws are pulled back and their fangs are bared. You must give it to them, it is everything. They are waiting for you, they have been waiting for you.’
‘They are my daughter’s guardians,’ Clytemnestra said. ‘They have danced around these halls for ten years.’
‘With a knife? Oh no. He took her with a knife. Your poor girl, your poor little girl. On her wedding day. She was so happy and then – oh. Your girl. At the altar for her wedding.’
Clytemnestra felt the tears forming. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right. He killed my daughter. Did he tell you? The man has no shame.’
Cassandra shook her head again. ‘Didn’t tell, doesn’t talk,’ she said. ‘Never talks to me except be quiet, lie still, stop crying. Nothing else.’
‘So how did you know? Did the soldiers tell you?’
‘She told me,’ Cassandra said. ‘Iphigenia. Pretty name, such a pretty name. Pretty name for a pretty girl. Your baby girl. You laboured so hard to bring her into the world. So hard. She nearly did not survive, you nearly did not survive. She was your precious, precious girl and he took her. But you will see her again, sooner than you think. She promises. Her brother and sister promise.’
The tears streamed down Clytemnestra’s face. ‘Of course they do. They will want to avenge their father.’
Cassandra wrenched her gaze down from the roof and focused on the woman standing before her: tall, broad-shouldered, handsome and strong. Her hair was streaked with grey, and soft lines framed her eyes and her mouth. ‘You believe me?’ Cassandra asked. No one had believed her for as long as she could remember. Who was this woman who was immune to Apollo’s curse?
‘Of course I believe you. I saw him kill her.’
‘No one believes me.’
‘You can see the past and the future?’ Clytemnestra asked. Cassandra frowned. She had stopped noticing the difference between these two things so long ago that it seemed peculiar anyone else should. The queen seemed to hear her thoughts. ‘Ah, they are the same for you. So you know what is coming, and yet you do not run away.’
‘No,’ Cassandra said. ‘No point running from what has already happened.’
‘But it hasn’t already happened,’ said the queen. ‘If you ran away now, you might live. You are young, you have quick legs. You could run away down the hill, hide among the trees, wait for a shepherd or someone to find you and make you his bride.’
‘Apollo’s mind is made up,’ Cassandra said. ‘It ends today.’
‘You will not fight the will of your god?’
Cassandra removed the priestess’s headdress, which she had worn since one of the Mycenaean men had given it to her on the voyage home. He had pinned new ribbons to her hair, not realizing that Cassand
ra knew he had looted them from the temple of Hera in Troy. But she did not complain. She sat patiently muttering while he took the stained ribbons from her headdress and replaced them. He murmured platitudes quietly the whole time, as if he was speaking to a wild animal. ‘There, there,’ he said, as he stepped back to admire the garland he had rejuvenated.
Now she wrenched the pins from her hair. Clytemnestra was surprised to see that she did not wince. Cassandra dropped the headdress on the ground and placed her small left foot on top of it. Clytemnestra felt a sudden rush of memory of Iphigenia’s beautiful white feet. ‘You spurn the god at last?’ she asked.
‘He has left me,’ Cassandra replied. ‘He is my god no longer.’ It was the only explanation for why the queen believed her when no one had for so long. Apollo’s curse no longer twisted her words on their way out of her mouth. The god was absent.
‘He would have protected you,’ Clytemnestra said.
Cassandra laughed, a terrible scratching sound, rusty from disuse. ‘He would have guided your hand,’ she said. ‘He may still. Take me inside. You have your altar ready.’
Clytemnestra nodded. ‘All that’s needed is the sacrifice,’ she said.
‘We’ll conduct the sacrifice together.’
*
Clytemnestra had waited for so long to have her revenge that sometimes, in the darkest hours, she wondered if killing Agamemnon would be enough. Because then what would she do? She could hardly kill him twice. What if – a small voice, a daimonion, spoke in her mind – she looked down upon his corpse and felt no rush of victory? What then would be the force which impelled her forward?
But she need not have worried. Killing him was every bit as satisfying as she had hoped. Partly because he had skulked behind a war for ten years, growing older and more bitter with each passing month: while the men around him died so lightly, he had clung to life. And so she knew – knew in every part of her mind – that she was taking from him something he valued highly. Too highly.
A Thousand Ships Page 24