‘That’s new,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  Andreas coughed. ‘Iphigenia’s tomb.’

  Every bit of colour drained from Agamemnon’s face. At first, he went on standing there, his knuckles white as he gripped the rail, but then he made a curious choking sound and, followed by Machaon, went rapidly below. There was silence after he left; people glanced at each other, but furtively, as if nobody wanted to be the first to speak.

  She could have buried Iphigenia anywhere, most obviously in the family mausoleum – the palace would have one, every Greek palace had a place where the kings and their immediate family could be buried with ceremony and with honour. But to bury her there, where her tomb would always be the first thing returning travellers saw … where it would be the first thing Agamemnon saw …

  Think you can turn your back on her? Pretend it never happened? Think again. She’s right here, in front of you. This is the future, not the past.

  The voice was so strong I found it hard to believe it was just coming from inside my own head.

  Cassandra glanced at me. ‘She’s clever.’ She turned and stared through trailing mist at the tomb again. ‘Oh my god, yes, she’s clever.’

  13

  A great feast’s been prepared, fire pits dug, extra spits installed, animals tethered in the kitchen yard, waiting to be slaughtered. Every helmet, sword and shield on the walls has been taken down and polished. She’s spent the whole day walking from room to room, supervising the preparations, taking decisions, giving orders, immersed in every pernickety little detail. Amidst the bustle and excitement, she notices the sad faces, people whose gaiety is forced because their husband or son or brother won’t be coming home. Tomorrow, when Agamemnon rides in triumph through the Lion Gate, there’ll be some who hide themselves away or stride across the hills like lunatics, shouting out their grief and pain.

  She’d be one of them, if she could.

  Can’t, of course. Can’t shout, can’t curse, can’t howl like a wolf that’s seen her cub killed, though her grief’s every bit as raw as theirs. She keeps Iphigenia’s nightdress in a linen case beside her bed and sometimes – not every night, she’s careful to ration herself – takes it out and buries her face in its greying folds. She knows there’s nothing of Iphigenia left – can’t be, after all this time – but sometimes, on a good night, she thinks she catches a trace of her scent or, better, the smell of her skin.

  Agamemnon won’t reach the palace tonight. She’s spoken to experienced sailors and their forecast, based on the current position of the ships, is that he’ll reach the harbour late afternoon. Since nobody wants to hold a triumphal procession in the dark, the earliest he will be here is around midday tomorrow – and that’s pushing it; they’ll have to be up polishing armour, grooming horses and unloading chariots all night. Their problem, mercifully, not hers. So: animals slaughtered, spits in place, vegetables, fruit, cheese, bread, olives, wine – gallons of it – all the food in stock or due to be delivered. She’s thinking like a housewife because she doesn’t dare let herself think in any other way. If this elaborate pretence, this warm, joyful welcome home, is going to work, then, at some level, she’s got to mean it. Be the blossoming flower – and the snake beneath.

  It’s a relief, in the hottest part of the day, to retire to her room and lie on the bed. This is the first minute she’s had to herself since the gong sounded to announce that one of the watchfires had been lit. Ever since, she’s been wearing a mask and behind it her face is crumbling. The exhaustion – if that’s what it is – was overwhelming at this morning’s brief rehearsal. It’s been agreed that the ceremony should start with the Lion Gate closed, simply because there’s no other way to prevent the crowd from stampeding down the road to meet him. But, seeing the gate slowly open, she’d started to imagine the moment when he’d drive into the court and she’d see him, face to face, for the first time since he killed Iphigenia. There’ll be hundreds of people there, watching that moment, alert for any change of expression on his face or hers. Standing at the top of the steps, looking across the white desert of the courtyard, she’d thought: I can’t do it. She’s got to see him in private first, to meet him for the first time unobserved.

  It’s easily arranged: he can stay overnight at the Sea House, where they’d spent so many happy times when the children were young. If that doesn’t make his brain boil, nothing will. Within minutes of taking the decision, she’s dispatched heralds to await his arrival and another, more discreet, messenger to the Sea House telling Dacia to prepare a meal.

  She’s finding it difficult to rest even in these few moments she has to herself. After lying with her eyes closed for what seems an interminable length of time, she gives up and goes to stand in front of the bronze mirror, wondering whether she can be bothered to try on her robes for tomorrow, though really what is the point? Like everything else, her dress was decided on weeks ago; it’s too late for second thoughts. Meeting her gaze in the shining metal, she turns her head from side to side, tries on a smile … Now this really is mad; this is where she loses all patience with herself. On board ship, at this very moment, Agamemnon will be shouting at his aides to polish his armour, check that his tunic’s properly aired and pressed, wash any remaining blood off his chariot wheels – oh yes, good luck with that! But one thing he absolutely will not be doing is peering anxiously at his own reflection, trying to convince himself that his crow’s feet are really laughter lines, or that the blurring of his jawline will be less noticeable if he holds his head in a certain way.

  Who is she? This woman staring back at her, with that nervous, placatory smile? Iphigenia’s mother, Agamemnon’s wife, the Queen of Mycenae?

  No. She’s –

  Oh, you know … Not Helen. The other one.

  Clytemnestra?

  What?

  Cly-tem-nest-ra?

  Oh yeah, that’s right, that’s her. They were always dressed alike, do you remember? Same dress, same ribbons, same sandals …

  Well, you know, they were twins.

  And Helen was always the one in front. I used to feel a bit sorry for her.

  Who, Helen?

  No, the other one.

  That’s who she is: the other one. Helen of Troy’s plain sister. What a burden to carry through life. But once, she was the mother of Iphigenia – and she still is. Not even death can change that.

  Restless, bloated, she wanders out on to the terrace where the late, full-blown roses seem to be storing the day’s heat. Everything feels breathless, the air so hot it scorches the back of her throat. What she’d really like to do now is visit Iphigenia’s grave, then have a simple meal, sitting in the garden under the trees, somewhere nobody will pester her. But it’s no use, she can’t leave the palace just yet, she’ll have to wait an hour or two. Sitting down, she kicks off her sandals, lifts both feet off the ground and looks at them in disgust. Talk about suet puddings; her sandal straps have left grooves in the puffy skin. What are they going to look like by this time tomorrow, when she’ll have been standing for hours in the midday heat, singing the praises of that murderous, blood-sucking bastard? Welcome home, great king. The marble terrace feels blissfully cool against her bare skin, and on top of the water jug there’s a square of white linen weighted down by blue beads. It’s such a small thing, that cloth, but looking at it gives her enormous pleasure. Simple, beautiful – and useful too, keeping the flies off the drinking water – the flies that are zooming all round her as if drunk on the smell of her sweat.

  Their buzzing takes her back to the journey home from Aulis, Iphigenia a tightly wrapped mummy at her feet. Closing her eyes, she experiences another of the flashes that have plagued her day and night for the last ten years. Iphigenia’s head cradled in her arms, she’s staring blankly at a clump of green plants beside the path when she notices a patch of red on one of the leaves. At first, she thinks it’s blood – there’s blood everywhere, drenching her tunic, spiking her hair – but then she sees that it’s a ladybird, doing nothing in particular, simply being there. Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children are gone. Words breaking the surface of a mind which, without them, would have been as empty as the sky.

  She hears her bedroom door open and somebody come into the room, but she can’t see into the dark interior. Nobody disturbs her here, not her maids, not the priests, not the loquacious old counsellors – not even Aegisthus, on the rare occasions when she allows him into the palace. Leaning forward, she sees a girl’s slim shape flit across the room and, just for a second, feels a stupid flare of hope. Then she says, flatly, ‘Electra?’ because really who else can it possibly be?

  ‘I couldn’t find you.’

  The voice is plaintive, but in a well-practised way. Electra comes out on to the terrace and tries to curl up beside her, but the chair’s not big enough for the two of them. ‘Come on,’ she says, the patience in her voice resolutely maintained. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  As if to underline the reasonableness of this suggestion, a flurry of cockchafers arrives, huge, flapping insects blundering into everything. Fleetingly, she remembers an evening before the war when an absolute plague of them had descended. Chaos – women screaming, men jumping about, jostling each other as they squashed insects between their hands, Agamemnon and Menelaus competing against each other, as they always did. Agamemnon won, or claimed he’d won – nobody was likely to contradict him, after all – and accepted a celebratory drink, only to spit the wine out as he saw his hands. Menelaus held out his own hands, which like his brother’s were gloved in dead and dying insects. ‘Look at them,’ Helen said, her voice glacial. ‘How old are they? Ten?’

  Clytemnestra draws the blinds, shutting out the blue sky and the smell of roses. When she turns back into the room, Electra’s setting a lamp on a low table by the couch. As she leans forward, the cracked and oozing patches on her face are mercilessly lit. As always, she feels the state of Electra’s skin is a reproach, though she’s not sure what she did to bring it about – if she did anything – still less how to put it right. She sits on the couch and Electra curls up beside her; within minutes the patch of skin where their bodies touch is slick with sweat, but Electra’s making little contented mewing sounds so it’s difficult to pull away. After a while, she throws her leg across her mother’s thighs, pinning her down.

  Carefully casual, Clytemnestra asks: ‘Where’s Iras?’

  ‘Dunno, I gave her the slip.’ Electra giggles, fully aware she’s getting Iras into trouble. ‘She wanted me to have a stupid bath.’

  ‘Well, it might make you feel better.’

  ‘No, it won’t. And anyway, she’s a slave, she’s not allowed to tell me what to do.’

  Electra’s almost sitting on her knee now, they’re so entwined. And she’s pinching Clytemnestra’s arms, as she often does; her skin’s covered in small, circular bruises, every shade from black to purple to yellow to green. Sometimes, in the council chamber, she sees the old men looking at them, speculatively – and it bothers her so much she’s taken to wearing shawls or long sleeves in public even on the hottest days.

  ‘When’s Daddy coming back?’

  Daddy. It’s what Iphigenia said as Agamemnon raised the sword. She’d been calling him ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’ for two or three years before her death. Only right at the end, piss streaming down her legs, had she reverted to the baby word: Daddy.

  A final plea for mercy.

  Ignored.

  She pushes Electra’s leg off her knees. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘But the watchfires are all lit.’

  ‘You’ll see him tomorrow. He’ll stay at the Sea House tonight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s got a lot of soldiers with him and they’ve all got to get up very early in the morning and march into the city. And –’

  ‘Why?’

  Electra’s constant ‘whys’ aren’t requests for information, they’re demands for attention. But they do have the unfortunate effect of making her sound stupid (which she is not) and babyish as well. ‘Because people want to celebrate, they want to cheer and throw flowers and … and they can’t do any of that in the dark.’ Please, please, don’t ask why. ‘Look, tomorrow night there’ll be a big party in the hall and –’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Yes, of course you can.’

  No, she can’t. Face that when I come to it.

  ‘And can I wear my dress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They’ve been through all this so many times. Like every other conversation with Electra, it’s repetitive, maddening – and, fundamentally, false. This is the way you’d talk to a small, overexcited child, and Electra isn’t a child, she’s nearly fifteen. The same age Iphigenia was when she died. Young girls are powerful presences. Is that why everything – the singing, the running footsteps, the handprints on the wall – seems to be getting worse?

  ‘Can I wear my dress when he arrives?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ll have to think about it.’

  Part of her likes the idea of the dark-haired girl standing in front of the rows of grey-haired counsellors, her dress an unignorable splash of ox-blood red against the white of their tunics. But that might be a bit too soon.

  Electra yawns. It’s a relief, that glimpse of healthy normal skin on the inside of her mouth. ‘You’re tired, aren’t you? Why don’t you go to bed a bit early? You won’t enjoy tomorrow if you’re tired.’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Well, then, perhaps Iras is right? A bath might help you sleep.’

  ‘No, it won’t.’

  Fretful now, accusing. Is she aware of the constant stab of accusation in her voice? Is it there, or do I imagine it? She hasn’t been a good mother to Electra. For the first two years after Iphigenia’s death, Electra had been abandoned to the care of slaves. Orestes too, for that matter, but he was older, and already spending much of his time in the training yards, absorbed into the world of men. Perhaps because of that he’d suffered less – or learned to hide the hurt better?

  Now, when she tries to reach out to this living daughter, she just feels jets of anger, because here she is: breastless, hipless Electra, covered in sores she won’t stop scratching – except when she’s pinching her mother’s arms. Skin hurts – that seems to be the one constant in Electra’s world. Even now she’s clawing at the scaly patches on her feet. ‘Try not to,’ Clytemnestra says, hopelessly.

  ‘I can’t help it. It’s them.’

  That’s another thing: she’s got it into her head she’s got jiggers. It’s not clear how she even knows about jiggers unless she’s heard some of the slaves talking about Razmus. There’s no other way she could know. Another puddle of sweat is forming between her body and Electra’s, who’s now dumped both feet on to Clytemnestra’s lap. Doesn’t the sweat sting? It must do: look at the cracks in her skin. She starts to ease herself away but instantly Electra’s grip tightens. She tries to make herself relax, to accept and even welcome the unwanted closeness, but then, suddenly –

  Enough! She pushes Electra away. ‘C’mon, you need a bath. It does help, and even if it doesn’t you’ve still got to be clean.’

  ‘The water stings.’

  ‘You’re going to be awfully tired tomorrow, if you go on like this. And you want to be able to enjoy it, don’t you? Seeing Da–’ No, no use, her tongue would rot if she said it. ‘Seeing your father again.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Suppose I don’t recognize him?’

  ‘You will. He’s the king. Everybody’s going to be looking at him.’

  ‘Suppose he doesn’t like me?’

  Wearily, she strokes the long, black hair. ‘Of course he’ll like you.’

  He’ll be utterly repelled by her. Agamemnon, in all the time she’d known him, had never showed a scrap of sympathy for sick or disabled people; in fact, he did everything he could to avoid them. Even his own mother when she was dying. What’s odd is that he doesn’t seem to feel disgust, it’s more like fear, as if somehow their weakness might be contagious, putting him at risk of catching it. She’s seen him kick beggars in the street. Illness in his own family he finds especially difficult; she’d learned early in her marriage never to be ill. The same applied to the children; they weren’t allowed to have weaknesses, because they had to reflect well on him. And nobody did that better than Iphigenia: beautiful, charming, intelligent, glowing with health and vitality – no wonder he adored her – though he was blind to the fierce, uncomfortable integrity that had been her most distinctive quality.

  This is the hardest thing of all for her to acknowledge: that Agamemnon loved Iphigenia.

  Another painful tweak to her skin. ‘Mummy?’

  ‘What’s wrong, baby?’

  ‘I don’t know. I want Daddy.’

  ‘He’ll be here soon.’

  Gradually, Electra falls asleep in her arms. Clytemnestra sits watching a cockchafer dancing around the lamp, its big, clumsy shadow flickering over the walls. Tonight, as soon as Electra’s settled, she’ll go to the Sea House and meet Agamemnon there – if he’s willing; he may not be. Though she can’t imagine he’ll want their first meeting to take place in public any more than she does. She eases Electra off her knee and on to the couch. She jerks her arms and legs – the way a drowsy baby does when you try to put it down – then slips into sleep again. After waiting a few moments to be sure, Clytemnestra goes to the door, intending to summon Iras and impress on her yet again the need for Electra to be carefully supervised – and particularly tomorrow.

  The door open, she pauses for a second to look back into the room. Steady, quiet breathing: good. At first, the palace seems equally peaceful, but then she catches the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It’s more than one person: there’s a lot of conspiratorial giggling going on. Earlier, she thought she heard the children singing, though it’s rare for them to sing by day. Now, stepping out into the corridor, she’s met by whispering and laughter and a pattering of feet as they run towards her, closer, and then closer, hurtling towards her, though there’s nothing to see. The laughter reaches a peak as they rush past her, running, always running, down long, twisting corridors, starved of light.