Elektra(36)

I laughed. ‘No. I think it was a long time ago.’

‘Maybe his father did, then.’

‘Maybe.’ It was confusing to try to imagine a time before my father had been king here. I pictured the Cyclopes; great hulking giants, hauling the blocks of stone up the hillsides, making the palace safe from invaders. The thought of their faces, the rough expanse of their vast foreheads punctuated by one staring eye, made me feel queasy. My father wouldn’t be scared of them if he had seen them, I was sure. Someone must have commanded them to do it; a king of Mycenae who had been here back then, whose blood must still flow in our veins. I felt a shivery thrill, standing there in the sunlight, thinking of it.

‘Can I stroke the dog?’ Georgios asked.

I shrugged. ‘If he’ll let you.’ No one else in the family was interested in Methepon; he’d become my dog alone since Agamemnon had left. Georgios patted his wide head, cautious at first of his powerful jaws and ferocious appearance, but growing bolder as the dog closed his eyes in bliss. I laughed. ‘I think he likes you.’

Another day, Georgios asked me if I knew how long my father would be away. I shook my head. ‘How long are wars?’

Neither of us knew.

‘Why didn’t your father go?’ I asked him.

‘He’s a farmer, not a soldier,’ Georgios answered. That made sense to me. His father always looked weary and stooped; not very impressive compared to my father’s bearlike and confident stance. They were nothing alike. I felt sorry for Georgios.

‘He says it won’t be long, though,’ Georgios said, and my heart lifted. ‘He says it’s the biggest army that anyone has ever seen so they will easily win.’

I smiled, a rush of exultation washing over me. I was so grateful to him for saying that. No one said Agamemnon’s name around my mother. I hadn’t dared to ask her how long he would be away, though I hardly thought about anything else.

‘My father doesn’t know why they went for Helen, though.’ Georgios looked at me curiously, and I wondered if he knew she was my mother’s sister. ‘He said she’s just a whore.’

A whore. I frowned, puzzled. ‘What does that mean?’

He shrugged. ‘I thought you might know.’

I didn’t. But there was something in the way he said it, the inflection he must have copied from his father, that I liked. There was a bite to it. It was a word you could spit, with something about it that held frustration, a pent-up anger. I didn’t know my aunt, but I hated the sound of her name. If Artemis had demanded her instead of my sister, then my father would never have had to go away. I was glad to have something to call her, in my head at least.

And then one day, Clytemnestra appeared again. Not a shadow of her, drifting down the corridor with her head bowed as though it was she who had died in Aulis. Clytemnestra, looking something like the mother I remembered: her hair shining in the sunlight, a necklace gleaming at her throat, golden threads glimmering through her dress. Her appearance made me jump, jolting me out of the snare of my daydreams. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. I darted a look at Chrysothemis, who looked as perplexed as me. An unfamiliar emotion bubbled up inside me at the sight of her, a flash of hope and recognition intermingled, a twist of unanticipated happiness. But before I could find my voice, I saw that there was someone else. A man, mean and scrawny-looking, trailing after my mother as though he had a right. At my side, I felt Methepon sit up, his hackles rising.

She told us his name. Aegisthus. I stared at him, unease shifting inside me. I didn’t say anything.

Later, I sought out Chrysothemis. She was kneeling in the courtyard, holding Orestes’ hands so that he could stand, his chubby fingers wrapped around hers, a look of fierce concentration on his little face as his knees wobbled beneath him.

‘You know that man with Mother, the visitor?’ I asked her.

She nodded. Her eyes were squinting in the bright glare of the sun, and I couldn’t make out her expression.

‘How long is he staying?’

‘I don’t know.’

I reached out my hand to Orestes and he loosened his grip on Chrysothemis, clamping on to mine instead. His palms were warm and soft and, unsettled as I felt, I laughed at his gummy smile and plump, rounded cheeks. ‘Father should see this,’ I said. ‘His son trying to walk.’ Orestes yelped and I realised I’d squeezed my fist around his too tightly. ‘Sorry!’ I soothed him. ‘Does Aegisthus have news about the war? Is Father coming home?’

Chrysothemis shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe he’s here to help whilst Father is away, though.’ She looked dubiously at Methepon. ‘Should you have that dog here, near Orestes?’

‘He’s our father’s dog,’ I said. ‘He’d never hurt Orestes.’

I bit my lip, hard. Something didn’t feel right about Aegisthus. Maybe it was the way he had been standing, just a bit too close to our mother. Or the nervousness that radiated from him, jangled in the air about him. He didn’t look anything like my father. Agamemnon was a big, broad man. His shoulders filled the doorway. His voice rumbled when he spoke. Those things I could remember, those things I would hold on to. He had left before Orestes was born, and now my brother was taking his first steps and my father’s face was already hazy in my mind.

I hesitated, wondering if I should mention Georgios. He might know something, or be able to find out from his father. But I wasn’t sure that I wanted to share him with my sister. I had a suspicion that she might not approve of our friendship, and besides, I was irritated by her lack of questioning, the way she seemed accepting of this interloper, trusting in our mother.