Another movement on the hill. Cautiously, so as not to attract Electra’s attention, I looked more closely. He was a smudge of shadow against the white ash, though there was light enough to see he was broad-shouldered, thin-hipped, moved quickly – everything about his body suggested a young, vigorous man. Electra hadn’t seen him – her head was bowed in prayer – but then she looked up the hill, and I realized she knew he was there, she’d known all along.

  Her brother? Or somebody else she knew and trusted? It was much more likely one of Aegisthus’ men, in which case we were in serious trouble.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, seizing her arm. ‘We’ve got to go.’

  I could hear his cloak swishing through the ferns as he ran down the hill. Minutes later, there he was, up to his ankles in the marshy ground, ignoring me, staring at her. She got to her feet and for a time they simply looked at each other, not even taking a step forward. As I gazed from one face to the other, I could see they were brother and sister. Something about the eyes, the eyebrows even … This should have been a touching moment, two children of the same father, united in grief. He held out his arms; she ran into them and raised her mouth to his. Nothing could have prepared me for the naked sexuality of that kiss. It was shocking – and not merely because of its unrestrained passion, but because there was something predatory about it. The way he folded his arms around her and fastened his lips on hers reminded me of a hawk mantling its prey.

  After a while, he raised his head and they began whispering together, Electra still fast in the circle of his arms. At last, he let her go and knelt in front of the grave, where she immediately joined him. There was no talk of peace now, no prayers for eternal rest: they prayed for war, for vengeance on their father’s murderers, urging Agamemnon to rise from his grave and join them in their holy quest.

  When they’d finished, Orestes stood up and seized Electra by her thin arms. ‘She’s got to die – you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  To consent, so readily, so easily, to your mother’s death. I was looking at her face as she spoke, and I swear to god I saw the Furies’ claw-marks on her skin. ‘Electra,’ I said, ‘you should go back to the palace now.’

  Orestes turned to look at me. Until that moment, he’d ignored me, assuming, I suppose, that I was merely one of his sister’s maids.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘She’s all right.’

  He seemed to accept that. ‘I’ve got to go anyway.’ Again, that predatory movement of his head as his mouth fastened on to hers. This time, I looked away.

  She stood at the top of the steps and watched till he was out of sight, then, together, we walked round to the main entrance.

  ‘Did Iras know where you were going?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know.’

  I thought Iras probably knew a great deal more than it suited her to say. We found her waiting outside the door of Electra’s room. ‘There’s warm water,’ she said. ‘You can have a bath.’

  Electra smiled and nodded. Behind Iras’ back she mouthed, Thank you, and closed the door, leaving Iras and me face to face.

  ‘She’s very close to her brother, isn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, yes, very close.’ She made it sound so cosy. ‘She was in a terrible state when he went away. I mean, she’s always suffered with her skin but nothing like that. It was a real flare-up.’ She looked down the corridor. ‘When they were little, he used to sleep just along there, but you could never keep him in his own bed, he was always crawling across the roof and getting into bed with her.’

  I remembered the drop, imagined a small boy doing that perilous journey in the dark.

  ‘I used to come and find them asleep in each other’s arms.’ Perhaps she caught my expression. ‘Nowt wrong with that, they were only children.’

  Until they weren’t.

  There was nothing I could do to help anybody here. As I left, I touched Iras’ arm because, after all, none of this was her fault. I walked quickly, head down, intent on getting back to my refuge in the herb garden. I needed time to think, but every time I told myself that, my thoughts immediately vanished, like fish when you throw a stone in a river. I suppose I was in shock, but everybody was, perhaps even the queen. Almost as if my thoughts had summoned her, I saw Clytemnestra coming towards me up the stairs. Flattening myself against the wall, I looked down at the floor as slaves are trained to do, hoping, expecting, that she’d ignore me, but instead she stopped. I could hear her breathing.

  ‘You’ve been to see Electra?’

  ‘Yes, I thought I’d just check in on her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She seems calmer. Older.’

  A snort of almost laughter. ‘Oh, I think we all feel that.’

  We talked about Electra’s skin, the various salves and herbal baths and other treatments we might try. Bullshit, basically, because we both knew what ailed Electra. Clytemnestra’s eyes never left my face. I was braced for her to mention the last time we’d met, when I’d watched her kill the king, but she made no reference to it. Of course, she was astute enough to know she didn’t have to. It was there, between us, as immovable as a boulder. She was going to have to say something, though.

  At last, looking straight at me, she said, ‘I know you’ve lost your mistress and … and I’m sorry about that. But there’s a place here for you, if you want it. My daughter needs a healer and I think even more than that she probably needs a friend. I need somebody to … to keep me informed. Iras is no use.’

  Her gaze had become, if possible, even more intense. She was making me feel uncomfortable, but I forced myself to look steadily back at her.

  ‘I’m very loyal to the people who serve me. As long as they’re loyal to me.’

  She was offering me a deal and not one that I could easily refuse. ‘It would be a privilege.’

  ‘Right, that’s settled then.’ She nodded, pleasantly enough, and walked on. I continued downstairs, outwardly calm, inwardly squirming. Clytemnestra seemed to be in complete control of herself and of the situation, but in my mind a red mouth opened. I mean the wound at the pit of Cassandra’s stomach. It wouldn’t have killed her – it was hardly more than a slash. But still, there it was, and it spoke to me of a total loss of control. Oh, I’m sure Clytemnestra believed she just wanted justice for Iphigenia and how else could she get it when Agamemnon was judge and jury in his own cause? And yet at some point, the quest for justice had slipped into a morass of hatred and revenge. It was all there in the second wound.

  She wasn’t to be trusted. And no, I don’t mean I couldn’t trust her to deal fairly with me, I mean she couldn’t be trusted to act predictably and rationally in her own best interests. Whoever decided to bury Agamemnon on that wasteland was mad. Had to be – and yes, it was probably Aegisthus, but she’d let him do it. Somebody would have seen them digging the grave and guessed who it was for, because palaces are like that. Whatever happens, somebody always sees.

  It was a relief to be outside, to look at the moon, to try and detect in that perfect disc the first signs of waning – though the children would always be there, no matter what phase of its cycle the moon was in. Right from the beginning, this had been about children: the children Atreus fed to their father, the boys slaughtered at Troy, the baby in Cassandra’s womb, and now, finally, perhaps – but nothing was final in this never-ending cycle – the children of Clytemnestra and Agamemnon, agreeing that their mother must die. The moon was high and full as I walked across the Lion Court, closing my ears and my mind to the shrill voices of children singing.

  Lying on my sacks in the storeroom, I tried to sleep, but when I closed my eyes, I saw Orestes kneeling by his father’s grave, dedicating himself to avenge his father’s death. No choice, no hope, the Furies would plague him till he killed his mother, then drive him over the edge into insanity because he’d killed her. And so, from generation to generation, the wheel turns.

  On the edge of sleep, I saw black birds, hundreds of them, wheeling and turning in a white sky before spiralling down to their roost. A soothing sight, but then, before I saw anything else, I heard the scrape of claws on tiles – and there they were, the Furies, landing on the palace roof. Helplessly, I watched as they linked talon to talon, hand to hand, moving their cracked, yellow feet in an endless, ancient dance. They had no eyes, or none that I could see, but then they don’t need eyes – they can snuffle their way from one bloodletting to the next, never any shortage of victims, and every cause is just.

  I felt Cassandra close beside me in the darkness.

  No wonder they dance.

  33

  Next morning, I washed, dressed, tried in vain to tame my hair, and set off for the Lion Court. It was already crowded and, at first, I couldn’t see why until I realized the guards were getting ready to open the gates. A tense moment: people stood around, alone or in small groups, not talking, not even looking at each other, until a guard on the wall shouted and waved his spear. Slowly, the great gates began to open and carts carrying fresh food began to come through.

  I didn’t expect the gates to be open for long. They’d do the bare minimum needed to replenish stocks and then the palace would be locked in again. Three carts were being driven through to the kitchen yard and I walked in that direction, rapidly, head down, hoping to persuade one of the drivers to give me a lift when he left. I’d just turned the corner when I heard a man’s voice shout: ‘Hoy!’ I went on walking – whoever he wanted, I knew it wouldn’t be me. But then the shout came again and this time I looked round. I don’t know what I was expecting, one of the guards, probably, coming to haul me off to prison – or worse. But no, it was my driver. I walked towards him, forcing myself to move slowly because too much haste might attract attention. I was still terrified, but without knowing what exactly I was frightened of, or how frightened I should be.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, holding the side of the cart. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’

  ‘Why not? Said I’d be back. They opened the gates for an hour yesterday. I looked around for you.’

  It must have been when I was at the grave.

  ‘C’mon, hop in. I’ve just got to unload this stuff.’

  This stuff seemed to be mainly fish. ‘I’ve got to fetch something first.’

  ‘Go on then, but be quick.’

  I ran all the way back to the shed. By now, I was so used to the garden being deserted that it was a shock to see an old man sitting on the bench under the apple tree where I’d sat with Machaon.

  ‘Just picking something up,’ I called, casually, as if he might be interested.

  He didn’t reply, just sat there placidly chewing mint leaves, probably more to cleanse his palate than anything else, because as I walked past, he spat out a green, well-masticated wad.

  Inside the shed, I grabbed the bag from the storeroom, delved deep into a sack of withered onions to retrieve the jewellery case, and then – this was the last thing I did before leaving – snatched up a pestle and mortar from Machaon’s workbench. Not as a memento – I was in no danger of forgetting what had happened here – more as a kind of pledge to myself for the future. The pestle nestling in the palm of my hand gave me instant, visceral pleasure: If any man loves the tools of any trade, the gods have called him. I reckon that goes for women as well.

  Midday now, and the heat was searing, though with rumbles of thunder to warn that the weather was about to break. The approaching storm was visible in the virulent green of the leaves. The birds were busy too: short, urgent, noisy flights from tree to tree, getting stuff done before it became impossible to fly. I lugged the clothes bag to the kitchen yard, waited while the driver finished unloading the fish, then threw it into the well of the cart and climbed up after it. Sweat streamed down my sides, though that was probably nerves as much as heat.

  I’d no sooner settled than the driver turned round. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘The king? Yes.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You know that for a fact, do you?’

  ‘I saw his body.’

  He made a curious phuph sound, as if every bit of breath had been knocked out of him. ‘It’s a moment, that is.’

  It was odd. When Agamemnon died, I’d been standing so close to him that I could smell that strange, intimate, not entirely pleasant smell you get in folds of hot, damp skin. Perhaps that’s why his murder felt like a family tragedy: terrible, yes, for some of the people who knew him, but intrinsically small-scale, domestic, confined to a tight-knit group of people in a cramped space. Now, in that winded sound, I heard for the first time the shock waves that would spread throughout the Greek world and far beyond.

  For a full minute after that, the driver stared into space, then he gathered up the reins and drove into the Lion Court, where we joined a short queue of carts waiting to leave.

  My thoughts turned to what I’d do when I got to the town – if I got to the town. My only reference points were Andreas and the Medusa. ‘You can put me down by the harbour wall.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing, I’ll get you on the ship. If Andreas found out I’d just dumped you, I’d never hear the last of it. Good bloke, but you don’t want to cross him.’

  In the time it took him to tell me that, another cart had been cleared. I watched it trundle through the gate. At least, now, I was sure of a bed for the night – and yes, I did wonder briefly whether Andreas would be in it. The relief was short-lived; the closer we got to the gate, the less hopeful I felt until I was sitting there, dry-mouthed, knowing – not suspecting, mind you, knowing – that the same thing was about to happen. We’d get right to the head of the queue, and then the gates would close. The guard come towards us, stopped, said something over his shoulder to the other guards, came on again. Casting no more than a desultory glance over the empty sacks, he stepped back …

  There was some kind of consultation going on between the guards. I looked towards the palace, expecting to see Aegisthus running down the steps, but there was no sign of him. I leaned forward, trying to make out what was happening in the shadows under the Lion Gate. Gradually, it became clear that we were being held back so that somebody of importance could enter. A slur and clatter of horses’ hooves on stone, a glint of eye-white in the gloom and then a young man rode into view. I recognized him immediately, though yesterday evening by moonlight I’d had only an indistinct impression of his face. It was his body I remembered. Today, he looked, not less powerful, but certainly younger. A hint of adolescence still: a gawkiness he’d outgrow in a matter of months. If he lived.

  Orestes.

  The name passed from mouth to mouth as softly as a sigh. No cheers, no shouts of acclamation, nothing like his father’s reception a few days before. The death of the king overshadowed everything, even the return of his son. At first, we all waited for the escort of armed guards to follow him through the gate, but there was only one young man who urged his horse into a trot until they were once more riding side by side. An equal, then: a friend, not a servant. But where were the guards? Both men were armed, but so is everybody who ventures on a long journey over lawless roads. For Orestes to ride into the Lion Court with only one companion was extraordinary. He seemed to be saying: This is my home, this is the safest place in the world. Why would I need a guard?

  At the foot of the palace steps, they dismounted. Two guards came running to lead the horses away. At the last moment, before beginning his long climb up the steps, Orestes threw an arm across his friend’s shoulders and pulled him close. Clytemnestra had come out from between the pillars and was standing waiting at the top of the steps. Every eye was on Orestes as he started to climb, steadily, never hurrying, never hesitating. I remembered how Agamemnon had stumbled because the red cloths stopped him from seeing where he was putting his feet.

  It would have been natural for Clytemnestra to run down the steps to meet her son, or at the very least to wave and call his name; but she did neither, just waited for him to reach her. At the last second, before they embraced, his shadow fell across her face. We heard the murmur of their voices, though we were too far away to make out individual words. After a while, Clytemnestra turned to welcome the other young man, who’d been standing back at a tactful distance to give Orestes time with his mother, and then the three of them – four, if you include Aegisthus, who I thought I glimpsed waiting in the shadows – disappeared into the darkness of the palace.

  Immediately, people came to life, smiling, talking, speculating. Another big moment – a good moment – the young king returning home. Something was flapping on the roof – birds, crows probably, carrion feeders attracted by the smell of blood from the kitchen yard. The cart jerked forward and I was so startled I nearly lost my balance and had to grab the rails. The shadow of the Lion Gate passed over us and we emerged into a day of racing clouds, gusts of rain-flecked wind that snatched the breath out of your mouth and, in the far distance, beyond Iphigenia’s tomb, glimpses of the sea.

  34

  On our way back to the harbour town, the driver didn’t seem inclined to talk and for that I was grateful. I knew I was going to have to construct a story to explain how I’d seen Agamemnon dead but without witnessing his murder. It didn’t take me long to come up with a plausible version of events. After Agamemnon’s death, slaves had been rounded up and made to march past his body, as a mark of loyalty and respect, before being strictly confined to their quarters. The story was simple, entirely credible – and I was only going to need it for the next few days. After that, everybody would know what had happened – or the official version of it, at least – so nobody would bother to question me. But, in the short term, this was the version of events I was going to have to give consistently to everybody who asked. Even Andreas.