Elektra(87)

I used to think incessantly of Iphigenia, lost in the realm of the dead, roaming that shadowy kingdom, unable to find peace. Now, instead, I find memories gushing forth: a child shrieking with laughter, running through the pillars of the courtyard, her hair streaming behind her. Her face, creased in concentration as she learned to master the loom; her beaming pride in the tapestries she wove. I think of all the mothers of Troy. Hecabe watching her sons slaughtered on its battlefield, her daughters dragged away on to Greek ships. Andromache’s infant torn from her arms and hurled from a Trojan tower on to the unforgiving rocks beneath. I hope they heard of Agamemnon’s death. I hope it brought them some comfort to know the commander who brought the armies to their shore met such a brutal end. At least I can give them that, if nothing else. But since I did it, I don’t know what there is to propel me on any more. Now that my thoughts are unclouded by anger, the desire for revenge no longer burns through my veins, I can feel my sadness in its cold and crystal purity.

And with the ebbing away of my rage, I look at the sleeping Aegisthus and wonder what ever bound me to him at all. Did we ever speak of anything except retribution? If we did, I can’t recall it, can’t summon any intimacy or find any common ground between us. When I look at him, I think only of my missing children. It’s their absence, rather than Iphigenia’s, that causes the aching in my heart.

And if I leave, will Elektra find some peace at last? I wonder if all I can offer to my embittered daughter is my absence.

Noiselessly, I gather my jewellery: thick gold bracelets and earrings that glint in the dim room, shining necklaces of carnelian and lapis lazuli, wealth to buy me safe passage anywhere I want in the world. Elektra disdained it all when she married, but if I’m gone and she realises she degrades only herself, and not me by association, maybe she’ll tire of flaunting her poverty.

The sun climbs higher in the sky, light washes through the room and I am ready to go, to leave all this behind me. But before I can take a step, a great clamour shatters the quiet – men’s voices, shouting outside the palace. And, to my horror, the din resolves itself into the words I dread the most to hear.





38


Elektra

‘Elektra, wake up.’ Orestes’ voice is soft as I swim back into consciousness, bewildered for a second until it floods back to me, and I sit bolt upright.

‘Is it time?’ I ask. ‘Is it nearly morning?’

‘It is. We must go now – but Elektra, you don’t have to come with us. We can come back for you, when it’s over.’

I push the threadbare coverlet away from me and rise to my feet. ‘I’m coming with you.’ I look around the room. ‘Where’s Pylades?’

‘Waiting outside.’

Georgios is sitting at the table, watching us. When I look towards him, he darts his gaze away. Orestes makes as though to step outside, but I clutch at his cloak. ‘I’m ready,’ I say. Orestes looks between Georgios and me, a question on his face, but I shake my head determinedly. The last thing I want is a goodbye, anything that might cloud my head. I did wonder, briefly, if Georgios would speak anyway, but he just looks down at the worn wood. I feel a spasm of pity for him, but I shove it down, far inside, and follow Orestes through the door for the very last time.

I’m taking nothing with me. There is nothing there that I want.

We walk in silence along the winding path towards the palace. The sky is beginning to lighten, feathers of pink and gold spiralling upwards. Pylades keeps a watchful gaze on Orestes, his eyes thoughtful and solicitous. Orestes’ face is grim, carved into something that sets a tiny quaking in my stomach. As we get closer, my head swirls and my eyes roll up, towards the roof of the palace.

They’re up there. Black, hunched figures, crouching atop the sprawling edifice. Three of them, silhouetted against the sky, monstrous blots on the rosy light of dawn. I dart a panicked glance at Orestes, but his face is still granite, staring straight ahead. I wonder if Pylades would be able to see them, even if he looked up.

‘Come,’ I whisper through my clenched teeth. ‘Come for us, then.’

I think I see one of them twist her head around, extend her neck. A flurry of hissing coils stir up around her, weaving their blunt heads in and out. I see myself, pinioned by her glare, spread and flayed on the earth under the pitiless blaze of it, my soul bare and cringing. But we keep on walking, those cold eyes following our every step.

It isn’t real, I think, a kind of hysteria bubbling up in my throat, though I know it is. We reach the gates, and Pylades and Orestes look at one another and nod. I grab hold of a pillar, my knees buckling, and they start shouting, hollering the words over and over, the words they know will draw Aegisthus out. I want to stand up tall and brave; I want him to see my face, too, before he dies, but I can’t make myself step forward. I can see him, running towards my brother, that hated face alight with hope, and there is no hesitation from Orestes. His legs don’t give way, he doesn’t cling to a stone column for strength. I don’t think he hears the scrape of snake-flesh against the unfurling wings, don’t think he catches the reek of their breath as they poise, ready, high above us. I can taste their eagerness for it, the satisfaction rippling through the air – and then, all at once, my vision clears, the scarlet tint to everything drains away and I can stand alone. Their hunger is mine.