Elektra(22)

I left it to my husband to console his wounded brother, and when they returned late that night, reeking of wine, Menelaus was transformed. I don’t know what Agamemnon had said to him, but a dreadful frenzy consumed him. His mouth twitched convulsively, flecks of foam scattered in his beard, and fury raged behind his eyes. I could not wish my husband anything other than victory in war, but I feared what punishment awaited my sister at the hands of this man, who seemed suddenly a stranger. Gone was the gentle, worshipful lover that had been so glad to win her; here instead was a vengeful, embittered, humiliated king with all the armies of Greece at his disposal.

I steeled myself. ‘Thank you,’ I said, and made to walk with her, but still she stood where she was.

‘Only, I heard the women talking as I left the hall,’ she said. ‘They didn’t know I was there. They said – they said that the army will not sail until a wedding takes place, that Father has promised—’

That look stamped across her face – part excitement, part dread. The way she was unable to take another step, so uncertain and exhilarated all at once. She was luminous with it.

‘That Father has promised his daughter to Achilles – that they send for me to come to Aulis to be – to be his wife,’ she said. A sob of laughter bubbled in her throat, and she shook her head, dazed.

Achilles. So many bargains had been made, so much persuasion deployed across the islands of Greece to bring this mighty force of men together. But of all the great soldiers famed for their skill and strength in battle, no stories paralleled those of Achilles. And it had seemed for some time that he had disappeared from the face of the earth altogether. The scattered fragments of the gossip that had reached us in Mycenae sounded fantastical, absurd: that his sea-nymph mother, Thetis, had disguised him as a girl and hidden him among a troupe of dancers; that somehow he had been tricked (by Odysseus, we had no doubt) and discovered. I had wondered what had changed his mind and made him agree to fight after all – perhaps this was it. Perhaps my husband had offered him our first-born child in exchange for his loyalty.

I had so many feelings, I didn’t know which one took precedence. To me, she still seemed so young, and although she was old enough to marry, I had hoped we might have a little longer before a husband carried her away. And Achilles, a fighter, being the one to take my gentle girl? I knew that Aga-memnon would consider him a son-in-law to boast of, but what would it be like for Iphigenia to be his wife? I tried to picture him: brawny and bristling with muscle, a spear clenched in his great fist. It was said that he was handsome, though. And if he had passed unnoticed among the girls that his mother had hidden him with, he could not be the monstrous giant of my imaginings.

Besides, he was to sail to war immediately. And I could not suppress the shameful thought that war was an uncertain thing. For all we knew, he may not come back. At the very least, it could take some time, and my daughter would still be mine for a little longer.

‘Mother?’ she asked again, tremulously, and I saw that her eyes were swimming with unshed tears.

I did not know how I felt in my heart about this news, but I knew that my child was afraid and unsure, and that it was in my power to ease her worries. How many hours had I spent as a mother soothing away nightmares in the darkness, sponging fever from hot foreheads, singing lullabies and allaying troubles? My husband sailed soon to slaughter enemies in the pursuit of power and glory, but I had been slaying monsters for years, smoothing the path at my children’s feet so that they could step confidently into the future. And if ever there was a time to do that, it was now.

I put my arms around her and drew her close. ‘It is a great honour,’ I said, and I felt the shudder of her body against me. Her shoulders felt so fragile, and her heart pounded so fast. She could have been a little songbird in my hand. ‘The time for marriage has been drawing near; I confess I did not think it would be so soon, but Achilles is a great man. Your husband will be the stuff of legends, I am sure. To be his wife will be a blessing. And –’ I drew back, tilted her face to look at me – ‘his mother loves him dearly. He nearly missed this war for her. He must be kind, to care for her enough to give up his chance at glory.’

She nodded. Stepping back, she squared her slender shoulders and blinked hard. The tears that had threatened to fall were gone, and a half-smile hovered at her lips. ‘If you approve, I know it will be well,’ she said, and my heart twisted again. She was old enough to be married, but still young enough to believe I could solve any problem.

I was grateful to the gossips for letting the secret slip. When the herald delivered the official message – Agamemnon sends for his eldest daughter to give her in marriage to the warrior Achilles before they sail to Troy – both Iphigenia and I were able to smile serenely before the court. We were to leave the very next day and the great flurry of tasks before us swept us up in what was unmistakably a ripple of excitement. Chrysothemis, at ten years of age, was thrilled by the prospect of a wedding, and woefully disappointed not to be allowed to accompany us, but Agamemnon’s message had been unambiguous in its instructions – and besides, the journey would be hot and dusty and arduous. ‘You must stay to look after Elektra,’ I told her, and she rolled her eyes.

‘Elektra always needs looking after.’

I was too busy to reprove her. It was true that my youngest daughter was prone to illness; every malady of childhood seemed to grip her. Many times, I had feared that one of them would take her from us. I had prayed for her survival, called in healers and nursed her with a fiery determination I would never have known I possessed. I had felt myself close to that abyss more than once in her short life, but always we had pulled her back from the brink and she lived on. A pale and sickly child, without the strength and ebullience of her sisters, but alive. We treated her like a delicate vase; Agamemnon in particular. I was grateful for how, of all our daughters, she had captured his affection. She worshipped him so, and he couldn’t resist her adoration. Even I couldn’t deny the sweetness of seeing her shadowed little face light up when her father scooped her on to his lap, and of hearing the thin note of her laughter at his rumbling voice. In those moments, it was easy to dismiss the slave-woman’s stories about his family. I kept them buried deep in my mind, never letting them surface. No one had told them for years. We would forget them, I had resolved, and they would have no power over us again.