Elektra(47)

Patroklos. The white was creeping in around the edges of my vision, but I swallowed back the bile that accompanied it and forced my gaze to rest only upon Hector’s face.

‘But Achilles is one man,’ Hector continued, his voice quiet. ‘Before today, we had the Greeks nearly overpowered. We will chase them to their ships, and he can roar and rage against us as he likes. Perhaps his grief will make him careless.’

I reached out my hand and wrapped it around his forearm. It was warm, life pulsing under his skin. By sunset tomorrow, it would be limp and dust-streaked, dragged along the earth behind Achilles’ chariot. I stared at his wrist, traced the pattern of green veins on the tender inside. I saw the inferno coming for him, ready to consume my patient brother.

‘Come,’ he said, making to stand, gently pulling me with him. ‘Do not stay here. Come to the palace and be with us tonight.’

No one else would want me there. His pity only hurt me more. I followed him as he asked, for there would be no more requests from my brother. I cast my eyes back to Apollo as we left, the wine that Hector had poured in his honour gleaming red in a bowl by his feet. Tomorrow night, Troy would mourn more desperately than it had in ten years of war. I walked behind my brother, already grieving him with every step I took.





18


Clytemnestra

‘Go on,’ I urged, leaning forward so eagerly that the wine nearly spilled from my goblet.

He eyed me a little apprehensively. He was a wiry youth, tense and uncertain, though he felt that he was bringing me good news. His worried gaze kept flicking to Aegisthus at my side: Aegisthus, whose narrow shoulders did not fill the broad back of his monstrously gilded and towering chair. I surmised it was this which made the messenger so nervous, for he delivered news of Greek triumphs at Troy to a man sitting in Agamemnon’s throne.

‘They say Achilles fought like a man possessed,’ he went on, stumbling a little over his words. I nodded encouragingly. ‘He . . . he tore through the Trojan lines like a fire tearing through a forest in the driest summer.’

‘Tell me of those he killed,’ I said.

‘He was more lion than man—’

‘Yes, yes, he raged like a fire and roared like a lion, but tell me what he did.’

‘Hector wore Achilles’ own armour, which he had stolen from Patroklos’ body, but Achilles strode forth in armour more magnificent than any that had been seen before – a gift, surely, from his immortal mother and worthy of the craftsmanship of Hephaestus himself.’ The young man caught himself as the irritation flashed across my face. ‘The Trojans were terrified, Queen Clytemnestra, and they fled before his fury. But he pursued them relentlessly.’

I savoured a long sip of wine.

‘Over and over, he hurled his spear, skewering men as they ran. He sprang from his own chariot to drag men from theirs, and if they clasped his knees and begged for their lives, he showed no pity. He hacked apart their bodies, plunged his sword into their livers, severed their heads and trampled his horses across their bodies until his chariot was decorated with the gore that sprayed up from under the churning wheels and thundering hooves.’ He was getting into his stride, realising that this description was just what I desired to hear. ‘He chased the Trojans to the very banks of the river Xanthus, and there he turned the water red with their blood. Only twelve men did he spare—’

‘Why any at all?’ Aegisthus asked. I saw that he, too, was gripped by the tale, though I could see him squirming a little on his chair. He did not share my relish.

‘He swore to slit their throats at Patroklos’ funeral pyre. But he would not burn his beloved’s body until he had sated his vengeance and for this, only the death of Hector would suffice.’

‘Where was Hector?’ I asked.

‘Achilles couldn’t find him in the great throng of the battle, but he cut down every man in his path in his search. Other sons of Priam died gasping at his feet and the river choked with corpses. Such was his savagery and his reckless lust for blood that he would have fought Apollo himself. Overcome, the Trojans ran to the city, the army desperately seeking the sanctuary of its walls before Achilles could slaughter them all.’

I sat back against my cushions, sipping my wine. I had never seen Achilles at Aulis; if he was there, I did not know his face. I had never cared to hear of his feats in battle; none of it concerned me until he turned upon my husband in his pique over a stolen slave-girl. I had worried then that his withdrawal from the war would hand victory to Troy, and that someone else, perhaps the famed Hector, would rob me of the privilege of murdering my husband. Now that I heard of his ferocious return to the fray, however, I felt a kind of affinity with Achilles begin to stir in my breast. I could see him, the grief and rage building in his chest, and I felt the cruel pleasure he must have taken in gripping that spear and striding out across the Trojan earth, ready to vent his passions upon a whole army of men. Envy twisted in my breast. If I could have wielded sword and spear and set out among that Achaean host who had stood and watched my daughter die, I would have taken the same satisfaction – and, like Achilles, I would not have stopped until I found the murderer that I sought. I gestured to the messenger to carry on.

‘At first, Hector didn’t run,’ he said. ‘He alone stood before the city gates whilst his father, King Priam, howled from the walls.’