Elektra(42)

I began to tell my brother stories, recounting the war tales that had been brought home to us, the scraps of information we had received over the years. So much was missing; I had to fill in the blanks. ‘Our father is the leader of the whole army,’ I said. ‘He’s so brave and strong that every man across all of Greece wanted to follow him.’

Orestes looked at me, his eyes wide and steadfast.

‘The gods fight alongside him,’ I went on. ‘They’ve always looked kindly on our family.’

‘If the gods are fighting too, why hasn’t he won yet?’ Orestes asked.

I frowned. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes things go wrong. Like here, in Mycenae. The gods want Agamemnon to be king here, but Aegisthus has come. He’s stolen from us. It’s happened to our family before.’

Orestes looked confused.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, squeezing him closer. ‘I’m here to look after you. Until Father comes back. When Father comes back, he’ll get rid of Aegisthus for us. Everything will be better then.’

He snuggled into me, leaning his head against my shoulder.

‘Tell me more about the war,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the battles Father has won.’

I summoned up all my powers of imagination.



It was the tenth year of fighting, an unimaginable length of time. The boy I had befriended by the farmer’s hut now worked the fields himself, a man. Not a man like Agamemnon; not a tall, proud king with flashing eyes and gleaming hair, whose strong embrace I still remembered. Georgios’ toil shadowed his eyes; his arms were thin despite their sinewy ropes of muscle, and he stooped from his hours of industry. Perhaps it was the patience he developed from his gruelling hours of labour that made him able to listen to me, over and over again. I was sitting on a stone step at the back of the palace, which overlooked the long sweep of rolling hills beneath us; the palace being built atop the tallest. Scrubby trees dotted the landscape and the late afternoon sun cast a golden glow across it all. I wished its beauty could touch me, rouse some kind of emotion. I felt the absence of the dog at my side. I still reached down sometimes to stroke his head before I remembered that he was gone.

‘What are you thinking of?’

I sighed deeply. I didn’t turn my head, but I knew what his face would look like as he sat down next to me. His eyes would be squinting against the slanting light, but he wouldn’t shade them with his hand. He was no more than a peasant to my mother and her lover, but he was my friend – the only friend I had, the only friend I needed. The only person who had ever told me the truth about my family.

I knew that he wished we would sometimes talk of other things. I wished that I could think about anything other than my anger. Sometimes I could hear myself as though I were outside my body, and I winced at the harsh drone of my own voice. But still the tirades came, strangling in my throat like a knot of vines that twisted and writhed until they were free. I was grateful that Georgios would always be there to listen.

‘I’m thinking that if my father was here, he would skewer Aegisthus like he should have done twenty-five years ago,’ I said.

‘Your father was kind,’ Georgios said, echoing again what we had said so many times over. He frowned. ‘My father always says how much better things were when Agamemnon was king. Aegisthus knows nothing about running a kingdom, and the men he’s brought in – they’re rough and greedy, or else useless workers. It’s not the way it was, not any more.’

If only I’d had the good fortune to be born a son, rather than a daughter. The curse that sank its roots deep within Mycenae; I could slice clean through it myself. Cut out the diseased branch of our family tree, leaving us pure and healthy at last. But I had grown up in the shade; unseen and unnoticed instead of shining brightly the way that he’d hoped I would, and all I could do was wait for my father to come home again.

‘Is there any news from Troy?’ I asked. We received official messages from heralds of battles fought and men lost, but I knew that among the workers, peasants and slaves, where tongues were looser, more precious nuggets of information could be found.

Georgios sighed. ‘None that will please you, Elektra,’ he said.

‘What?’ I could feel my mouth drying as I spoke. I couldn’t believe that there would ever be the news I dreaded; it could not be that Agamemnon would fail . . . but still, my weak heart feared it.

Georgios’ brows drew together as he spoke. ‘I heard that Achilles doesn’t fight for the Greeks any more,’ he said.

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Is that all?’

‘It is enough.’

‘Achilles is one man,’ I answered. ‘His Myrmidons are a fraction of the army. There are many other fighters.’ Ajax, a towering mountain of a man. Odysseus, wily and strategic. My father, at the head of them all.

‘Troy won’t fall whilst Hector lives,’ Georgios said. ‘And no one is a match for Hector except Achilles.’

I sucked in my breath; cast him a look of withering reproof. I let a moment pass, bit back my retort. ‘And why has this great fighter deserted the Greeks?’ I asked tightly.

‘He quarrels with your father. King Agamemnon has taken his prize, a slave-girl won by Achilles.’

I shrugged. ‘All prizes won in war belong to the king, and he distributes them as he sees fit.’