Elektra(80)

34


Elektra

‘Elektra! We have news.’

Georgios is standing in our doorway with another figure, someone I don’t recognise from this distance. We never have visitors. I nearly drop the jar of water I’m carrying. I set it down carefully on the ground, trying to calm the pounding of my heart. I don’t want to have to walk all the way back to collect more if I spill it all. I won’t let myself hope that this could be Orestes. I walk over to them as steadily as I can, my eyes raking the stranger for details. He’s roughly dressed, a peasant like Georgios – like me, now. There’s nothing familiar about him, and no light of recognition in his eyes either.

‘Word has come of Odysseus.’ Georgios looks more concerned about it than I would expect. I can’t see why it matters so much.

‘Odysseus?’ I shake my head, confused. ‘Isn’t he dead?’

‘He’s alive, all these years after the war,’ Georgios says. ‘Everyone’s talking about it, what they’ve heard.’

‘What does it have to do with us?’ How lucky for Odysseus’s wife and son, I think, to have him back even so many years after the war has ended. I would have waited so gladly, for twice as long, if it meant my father could come home alive.

The stranger clears his throat. ‘He’s been to all kinds of places. There are many stories, but no one in Mycenae is allowed to talk about it.’

‘Why not?’

He lowers his voice, even though there is no one visible anywhere near our deserted shack. ‘The queen and Aegisthus have spies, constantly searching for information about your brother. But they aren’t always so discreet, especially when their lips are loosened by wine. One of them recently returned from Sparta, where they are always monitoring in case King Menelaus takes Orestes in, and he overheard the whole tale recounted to the king by a herald.’

I can hardly breathe. ‘Did Odysseus find Orestes? Is that it?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not Orestes, no. It’s said that Odysseus went to far stranger places: that Poseidon wanted him dead and wrecked his ships; that he had to battle monsters and seek refuge with nymphs; and that it was Athena who guided him home at last.’

Georgios interrupts. ‘Odysseus claims he’s been to the Underworld. That he spoke to the dead.’

I feel a cold thrill. ‘How can that be?’

‘I don’t know. But they’re saying he spoke to Agamemnon.’

It’s like a blow, his words striking me with so much force I think my legs will give way. ‘He saw my father.’ I won’t believe it; it can’t be true. If it is true, then I can’t bear it. Why would Odysseus, a man we all thought dead years ago, get to see my father and come home alive and triumphant? Rage crackles in my chest.

Georgios steps towards me, concerned, reaching out to steady me. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

‘I do! Please, tell me the rest of it,’ I say to the other man. He has all my attention. I need to know what they’re saying about my father, true or not.

‘He sailed across the ocean to find the place, a stream that runs underground all the way to the house of Hades. He poured libations there and sacrificed a ram, to lure out the dead. The ghosts rose up to drink its blood, and Agamemnon was among them.’

I close my eyes, overwhelmed for a moment by the thought of it. My father, the king, the leader of the greatest army the world had ever known, reduced to a wraith tussling over sheep’s blood. ‘Go on.’

‘He told Odysseus how he died, how shameful it was to be killed by a treacherous wife. He begged for news of his son, but Odysseus knew nothing of Orestes, or anything that had happened here. They wept together over it all.’

‘Elektra?’ Georgios’ voice is solicitous.

‘Everyone knows.’ I can imagine them all talking, the gossip igniting again, the burn of their words. My father was murdered so long ago, but still his death goes unavenged, still Orestes is gone and no one dares breathe a whisper about him. And now this. A rumour of Agamemnon of the House of Atreus, the head of our family, mourning the loss of his reputation, which tarnishes more every day that his son does not come back to bring retribution to his killers. ‘Everyone knows what a disappointment we are to him.’

Georgios is shaking his head vehemently. ‘You are no disappointment. Not you, not Orestes either. That’s not what this means. It is Clytemnestra who betrayed him, it is only her that people will condemn for his suffering.’

‘How can they not condemn us, too?’ I can hear how shrill I sound. ‘My father is languishing in the Underworld, desperate for justice, and it still hasn’t been done!’

‘That’s not your fault.’

‘He can’t find peace,’ I whisper, and Georgios takes me in his arms. I wish that he wouldn’t. I don’t want comfort. There is no comfort for my father; nothing but a bitter thirst for revenge, a worse suffering than Tantalus in his desolate lake.



I rise early and stand in the doorway, watching the stars fade from the dim sky. He comes up behind me, places his hands upon my shoulders, and when I stay still and unresponsive, I hear him sigh as he retreats. Always, my thoughts return to that pit where my father’s ghost broods. Wearily, I turn back inside and search within the shadows for the little knife I have just for this purpose. I feel Georgios’ eyes following me as I pull a lock of my hair forward and slice it free with the blade. The ends of it are jagged and uneven, and I feel a fierce pleasure, imagining my wild appearance. It is years since a handmaid combed my hair and fussed at my clothes, trying to transform me into something other than what I am. I revel in my unadorned clothes and my knotted hair: Clytemnestra’s daughter, they whisper when they see me, noting my degradation, how she lets me live. I scorn the pity I get from the other women; I never speak of my sufferings, and so they believe I have been cast out from the palace, that she married me to a commoner to exile me from the family. No one would ever believe I walked away willingly.