39
Clytemnestra
‘Orestes is dead!’ they are calling, over and over again, hammering on the palace doors.
I’m frozen in shock, but Aegisthus moves like lightning. He leaps from the bed, dragging a cloak around his shoulders as he runs to the door. In his feverish excitement, he doesn’t wait for his guards, his usual escorts everywhere he goes.
I race after him, pulling on my own cloak over my dress, my hair streaming loose behind me as I run through the palace, silent except for the relentless din of these terrible voices, through the great doors at the front. And in that moment, I know it all.
My son is alive. He stands before Aegisthus, his sword raised, his face contorted in a snarl of fury. Aegisthus is frozen, his arms outstretched, a tableau of confusion. The world falls still and quiet, the menace palpable in the air.
Orestes strikes.
His blade sinks into Aegisthus’ neck. I watch, mute, as he staggers backwards, his face bright with astonishment, his desperate eyes meeting mine one last time, and then he falls.
I stare at the blood blooming across the ground. I can hear the sharp scrape of Orestes’ breath. Footsteps frantic within the palace, the guards coming too late.
I drag my eyes away from the scene in front of me, holding my hand to stay the advancing guards. ‘Your master is dead,’ I say. My voice is so steady. ‘You will not harm my son.’
I can feel their resentment and panic. The usurper is defeated, and they know how he and I are hated in Mycenae. Aga-memnon may not be mourned by many, but his conquering son returned from exile will find far more sympathy and loyalty here than they will. I see them weighing it up: to run or to fight.
With a look of loathing, the foremost of them turns away. I watch as, one by one, the others follow.
So, it is me, alone in front of my children. I sense the watching eyes of the household staff, the slaves gathered breathlessly in the halls, peering out to see the outcome, but when I turn back to face Orestes, Elektra and their companion, I am entirely alone. No one else steps forward to speak in my defence; I have no friend to plead for me or stand between me and their justice. I am glad of it. I want nobody else in the living world at my side.
Orestes is not looking back at me. His hands are tightly clenched around his sword, his knuckles white, but he gazes resolutely away. I take a step closer to him, and then another. I can see a sheen of sweat break out across his forehead.
If I beg him for my life, I think, he will grant it. I could plead that I am his mother; that what I did was simple justice; that he has taken his revenge on the man who took his father’s throne, and must not commit a monstrous crime before the gods, here in the newly risen light of day. I know that I could break his already wavering resolve. It’s what everyone expects me to do. It’s why he won’t look into my face.
Elektra must know it too, because she says his name. Her tone is one of warning, a rebuke to his hesitation. When I glance at her, she is alight with righteous hatred.
No jewels would ever buy a softening of her fervour, I realise. There truly is nothing I can give Elektra that would ease one tiny part of her suffering. As long as I am alive, it devours her from within. I shudder at the memory of the swarming creatures of my dream, the teeth against my bone, and everything slides sideways in my vision. And, swimming back up from the past, there is Cassandra, holding my gaze, asking me silently to be released in death.
I wanted nothing but peace for Iphigenia for ten years. Elektra has known nothing but seething, relentless disquiet for twice that long. The same torment rends my son in two. I thought this morning when I rose, intent upon escape, that the only gift I could give my children was for me to be gone from them forever.
I hope it eases their pain, I think, as I close my eyes.
40
Elektra
I’m still staring, mesmerised by the sight of the life draining from Aegisthus in crimson rivulets, when she orders the guards away. I lift my head. What does she have planned? Is she about to beg for her life? Does she not want them to bear witness to her weakness? Does she think she can negotiate with us, that anything she says will move us?
I’m as motionless as the night-black hags above us, the monstrous crones leaning over to watch.
Do it, I urge him silently. What are you waiting for? Just do it.
But he doesn’t move. He’s looking into her face and, against my will, my eyes are dragged towards it, too. Her true face. No smirk, no smooth mask of indifference, no cold complacency. The years have fallen away from her, and I can see the mother I remember, from before Iphigenia died, from before any of this happened. The mother who bathed my forehead when I was ill, who prayed to the gods for her children’s health, who sang and told us stories. Her love for us, a love I thought had burned away on my sister’s funeral pyre.