Elektra(15)

I watched my daughter sleep, blameless and innocent, in my arms. I thought of the babies born at Mycenae before, of their crumpled faces and the sweet softness of their flesh.

‘These stories are in the past,’ I whispered. I looked the slave-woman in the eye. ‘Thank you for telling me. I won’t breathe a word of it, not to anyone.’ I could feel her eyes still steady upon me as I stood up, careful not to disturb Iphigenia. ‘Don’t speak of it again,’ I said as I opened the door. I was grateful to breathe the cool air of the corridor, to be out of that room, away from the claustrophobic darkness and the hideous legends.

I was Queen of Mycenae now. My Spartan blood ran in my daughter’s veins just as much as the cursed blood of Atreus. Our fortifications were strong, and our army was powerful. She would be protected from anything that could threaten her from the outside.

But her father, my husband, was the son of Atreus. The descendant of killers more wicked than I could have dreamed. There was no crime more terrible than slaying your own kin; no greater evil imaginable.

And however fast our defences against the world beyond our kingdom, I didn’t know how I could keep her safe if the enemy was already inside our walls.





6


Elektra

My first memory is illness. A fever that wracked my body, bathing me in sweat as I shivered from head to foot. My eyes burning in the darkened room. Weird shapes twisting and blooming in front of me, and bursts of livid colour. A nightmarish landscape that swelled up and shrank again, leaving me panting and bewildered. Monstrous creatures rising from the floor, which I screamed and shrank away from. Snaking coils shifting around me, brushing my face. I clawed at them, trying to tear them away, and I heard my mother’s voice telling me to be still, to be quiet, to rest and it would all stop.

When the fever abated, it burned away all my energy with it, and I lay in bed too weak to move. Food sickened me and even the effort of lifting my head to drink seemed too great. I slept in long, heavy stretches of blankness, never knowing if it was day or night when I woke. They summoned a healer. I remember her in flashes: a dark silhouette in the dim light, her muttered incantations, the sharp stink of the herbs, bitter liquid swirling in a cup. Once, I woke to hear my parents talking in hushed voices in the doorway.

‘But could she die?’ I heard my mother say. I felt my body go rigid, my breath halting in my chest as my eyes widened and I strained to make out the answer.

‘We’ve made offerings to the gods.’ I shrank back from the sound of the healer’s voice. ‘We can only wait.’

My father’s voice was clear, no mumbling or softness. ‘They’ll spare her. There’s no need for worry.’

I breathed out, reassured by his ring of confidence, his authority. My mother carried on talking, rapid and shrill, making my head ache more. I shifted in my blankets; my throat so dry I felt like the insides of it would stick together.

Alerted by the sound of my feeble movement, she was at my side at once. Her hand slid behind my head, raising it up, her other hand holding a cup to my lips. Water, just water this time, clear and sweet and pure. I sipped at it gratefully. My father was already gone. Already I wanted to go back to sleep, but what she’d said before had scared me. What if I fell asleep and died?

Her hands were on my face, smoothing my hair back, her touch soft and gentle as she settled me into the soft cushions. I clung on to my father’s words as sleep pulled me back under.

A bright morning, the surface of the long oak table shining in the sunlight that streamed through the window. My mother trying to persuade me to eat. I pursed up my mouth and shook my head, shoving the bowl away, sending it clattering down the table. I remember the noise it made as it crashed to the floor, how she stared at the broken shards on the stone tiles. For a moment, she looked as though she would be angry, but then she laughed and kissed me on the forehead. ‘You must have your strength back, to send the bowl flying so far,’ was all she said before she summoned a slave to clear away the mess.

The happiest memory: outside in a courtyard, my father lifting me up in his arms. I was fascinated by the golden clasp at his shoulder that held the fine woollen edges of his purple cloak together; how it glinted in the sun. A little gem sunk into the centre, with two tiny figures embossed upon its surface: warriors in combat.

He had a pair of daggers made of bronze that I loved to look at. The blades were inlaid with gold and silver. One was decorated with sea creatures, shining tentacles looping across the surface. The other, my favourite, was a scene of men hunting lions. I loved to trace the tiny bright gold spears, the silver shields, the snarling face of the lion. He laughed, pleased at my interest.

An evening when I couldn’t sleep. The distant sound of my parents arguing somewhere in the palace, my mother storming from a room. The only word I heard distinctly was Helen’s name.





7


Cassandra

In Troy, I had grown used to walking out of step with everyone else. But I had never known what it was to be shunned. The other priestesses pitied me at first for my madness, but they soon grew impatient with my wild claims to have been visited by the god himself. I saw how their faces pinched when they looked at me, the sympathy draining from their eyes. It was replaced by suspicion, exasperation and, finally, a cold disinterest. I suppose they thought I lied for the attention, and they grew tired of hearing me.