Elektra(40)

16


Elektra

Clytemnestra didn’t spend all day in her chamber after Aegisthus came. She was always visible in the throne room, at the long banqueting tables, in the wide and sunny courtyards. Always he hovered there, inches away from her, as though an invisible thread connected them. I was too young at first to understand scandal, to know the meaning of the sideways looks and heavy whispers that followed them. But as time passed, I became increasingly horrified at her brazenness. She could have been stripped naked and dragged through the streets so that the populace could hurl stones at her. I wonder if that would have been enough to jolt her implacable composure. But who would do such a thing? I suppose that was the crux of it. My father was gone, and he had taken the fighters with him. Clytemnestra was allowed to rule until either her husband returned or Orestes grew old enough to take on the mantle himself. It would be left to Agamemnon to deal with his rebellious wife when he returned. If Aegisthus had been strong, I could have understood it more. If he had stormed the palace, taken his place by force and bent us all to his will, I could have forgiven her. But this craven, hesitant, rat-faced wraith who had all the substance of my mother’s shadow – this was the man who took the throne beside her, who dared to sit where the mighty Agamemnon had ruled?

The first betrayal, like a shock of icy water, came soon after Aegisthus arrived. Chrysothemis, out in the courtyard, smoothing out a bright rectangle of cloth, holding it for my mother to see. It was easy to impress our mother with our weaving; it wasn’t a skill she’d ever taken the time to master particularly well, so the murmurs of admiration I heard drifting over probably weren’t false. But it wasn’t just the sincerity of my mother’s interest that jarred; as I peered around the pillar where I stood concealed, I saw him. Aegisthus, standing by the low wall, nodding along with her praise. My chest tightened. Chrysothemis blinked, unsure of herself for a moment, and then smiled shyly, right at him.

I swallowed back my anger. I didn’t dare take a step towards them. I stood rooted to the spot, afraid that one of them would glance in my direction, that they might notice me staring. When I trusted myself to move, I crept as silently as I could. It was something I would become well practised in later, slipping stealthily through the palace, hanging back in the shadows, pretending that I didn’t exist at all.

I was powerless. He was there, always, and so no matter how much more I saw my mother, I never seemed to see her without him. At first, I would wake every morning sitting bolt upright, heart racing from nightmares that I couldn’t remember, formless shapes reaching for me from the dark. But every day passed without event, seasons bled into one another, Methepon’s legs grew shakier and less steady as Orestes grew taller, walking confidently on his own, and still the war raged on in Troy – and Aegisthus remained in Mycenae, as impossible as it seemed.



It was Georgios that I turned to, of course. Georgios could ask his father for information, and slowly the picture emerged. The palace was more divided than I knew. There were those who had remained silently loyal to the dead Thyestes and his banished son, whilst there were others fiercely devoted to my father. Georgios’ father was one of the latter. I learned from what Georgios heard from him: how Thyestes had stolen Mycenae and exiled Agamemnon and Menelaus, and how they had marched back with Spartan armies and the other forces they had gathered in their lonely outcast years to take back what was theirs. I learned how it was my mother’s pity that saved the boy Aegisthus from death alongside the scheming Thyestes.

And, most intriguing of all, Georgios told me about the curse.

I listened, enrapt, and when he came to the end of the tales, I looked around at my home as though seeing it through different eyes. Not only were the stones laid by Cyclopes, our palace had been host to Olympian gods, guests of my forefathers. Our ancestors were honoured by their company. There truly was a greatness in our blood, the blood that came to me through Agamemnon. But like so many great families, there was a diseased branch, deeply rooted and entwined with the nobility. My father was a man loved by the gods; of this I was sure. He had led the greatest army that had ever been seen to war; they must smile fondly upon him. But he bore the taint of those in our family who were not worthy, those who sought things that were beyond them. Tantalus had given way to hubris, but his example had not deterred Pelops nor Thyestes after him. It had been up to Agamemnon to rout out the diseased part, to sever it from the healthy, to leave our family whole and intact, with the greatness of those who had gone before us and none of their foulness. But he had made a mistake. He had left Aegisthus to grow, stunted and misshapen, an insult to our blood. Living in our palace. Lying with the queen.

‘Why didn’t she ever tell me all of this?’

Georgios looked solemn. ‘No one in Mycenae is allowed to talk about it.’

I sucked in my breath. ‘So she’s kept it secret, hoping people will forget.’ I shook my head. ‘The gods were friends to our family once, and they could be again. How could she hide that from me?’

‘All I know is that it’s forbidden.’

As though it were a source of shame. My gratitude to Georgios for giving me this knowledge couldn’t assuage the dart of bitterness I felt towards my mother for concealing it. It rankled in my breast, a sharp sting of resentment. She didn’t want me to know who my father was, what our family had endured. I wondered what other secrets she might hold close, what else there might be that I didn’t know and no one would dare tell me.