Elektra(63)

‘Welcome home,’ I say. I wonder for a moment if he is going to embrace me, and as I repress a shudder at the thought of being held in his arms, pressed close to his body again, I take a step backwards and gesture to the somewhat meagre gathering of palace elders and slaves who are lined up outside to greet him. ‘We thank the gods for your great victory and your safe return.’ This at least is true.

He inclines his head slightly, an acknowledgement of the gods’ benevolence without an outright declaration of gratitude. I can feel his irritation, how it needles him not to receive the praise himself, though he cannot say it out loud. Ten years apart and I still know what will spark his anger, how tender his ego is and how easy it is to bruise.

‘We are weary indeed,’ he says, and I flinch at the sound of his voice again.

‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘The women have prepared baths, wine, food for you all. Please, allow your men to be taken inside.’

Agamemnon runs his gaze across those gathered to welcome him home and frowns. ‘Where are my daughters?’ he asks. The unspoken thought flits between us; I know he feels it hum in the air, but the furrows in his brow only deepen, and he tosses his head a little as though batting away a troublesome fly. ‘And my son, whom I have never met. Why is he not here to greet me?’

I hold my smile. I do not know how this man dares to speak of his children. ‘It is yet early in the day,’ I say lightly. ‘Surely you want to bathe, to eat and to rest first of all? We have everything prepared for you.’

He looks aggrieved, but makes to step forward. I force myself to take his arm.

‘You are a king,’ I breathe. ‘Do not step where the common soldiers trod.’ I stand back. ‘We have laid out our finest tapestries for you to walk upon.’

At this, I hear a stifled gasp from the woman who stands a pace behind him, partly hidden by his bulk. I have held my gaze steadfastly away from her. I know what she is, and it is beyond anything I can comprehend that he marches her up to the palace in full view of us all, that he stands in front of his wife with this woman cowering at his back. Now, I let myself look at her. Dark, tangled hair. A bruise blooming at her temple. I don’t want to think about how she acquired it. Great, dark eyes, cast down to the ground – until now, when she glances up, seemingly unable to stop herself. When I look into the depths of those eyes, I feel something touch me, pressing right into the raw wound of my soul. All at once, I have to blink back tears.

Agamemnon notices me looking at her and smiles briefly. ‘A princess of Troy,’ he says. He savours the words slowly. ‘Cassandra, priestess of Apollo, great protector of the city.’ His laugh is mirthless, but the woman does not flinch. Her glassy eyes stare blankly at the embroidered cloths on the ground. When my husband follows her gaze, confusion and annoyance mingle across his features, wiping away his smug satisfaction. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snaps.

I tear my gaze away from the woman. ‘Why, a carpet laid out in your honour.’ The words spill out as smooth as cream.

He huffs, indignant and ridiculous, and I feel my stomach curdle to think this man has ever touched me. ‘Tapestries, Clytemnestra?’ he asks, incredulous. ‘I hardly dare to think of stepping on such finery; it is what we set out for the gods, and not for any mortal man to desecrate.’

A laugh nearly startles from me before I suppress it. What is this – self-awareness? Humility? Perhaps the war has taught him something after all. I shake back my hair, smiling still. ‘How humble you are, how full of respect for the gods,’ I soothe. ‘Be sure of it; they note your modesty. But you are no ordinary man, Agamemnon, you are something other than the rest of them.’ I pause. ‘You led your army in the mightiest war that Greece has ever known, and you return victorious. Troy smoulders in ruins, the impermeable citadel cracked apart by you and your men, its riches yours. What man has accomplished such a thing before? No one of mere mortal birth, surely.’ I force myself to step closer to him again, to turn my eyes up to his, clear and steady. ‘You bring with you a daughter of King Priam himself. Just imagine what he would have done if he had conquered the Greeks. He would not shrink away from stepping upon rich, purple cloths. He would take it as his due as the victor of this war. Do the same, Agamemnon. Do not deny yourself this glory.’

He looks back at me for the space of one long breath. I can hear my heartbeat thudding in my temples. Then he shrugs. ‘I will take what I am due,’ he says at last. ‘Though not in boots begrimed still with the filth of Trojan earth.’

I breathe out, a soft hiss of victory. I catch a slave-girl’s eye, incline my head towards his feet, and she hastens forward to loosen the leather thongs and lift the boots from his feet. I watch, exultant, as he steps on to the thick brocade. Beneath him, the intricate stitches tell the story of the pleasures of the immortals. His heels grind into the fine details as he walks, the rich, deep crimson dark like wine flowing beneath him. The elders cast their eyes down, looking away from him as he walks, unable to watch. I drink it in: the sweet scent of the morning air, the sunlight glinting from the buckles at his shoulder, and every slow footstep an insult to the gods. I utter a silent prayer to Zeus, bringer of justice.

The Trojan woman stands, transfixed. I cannot imagine the horrors behind her, the misery she sees ahead, within the grandeur and magnificence of our palace. I do not want to think of the indignity she has suffered, of what my husband has already inflicted upon her, the humiliation of being paraded before me and all who watch here. But I have no time to think of her. I instruct the slave-girl again, to take the woman inside, to treat her with kindness as a guest in our home. Even as my tongue twists around the words, I feel their inadequacy. No kindness can ever make up for what we have done to her, and she is no guest.