When they came back to Troy, the adulterous couple talked high-mindedly of Aphrodite’s power, of forces beyond their control, of the divine intervention that clouded their minds and made no other course of action possible. They made a great procession through the city gates, as though it was a royal wedding to boast of rather than a shame and a disgrace upon both their families. They seemed oblivious to the stricken faces that watched them waving from their chariot and the hum of nerves that ran through the gathered spectators, who were wondering what this meant for Troy, what it meant for all of us. Helen was veiled, and as they made their approach through the streets of Troy to where I stood with my parents and my siblings, I itched to see her face. Not to see if she was as beautiful as they said. I needed to look at her, to know if I saw the same catastrophe in her features as I had read in Paris’ the day he came back.
Her veil was threaded through with shimmering gold, held in place with a delicate circlet of golden vines wreathed atop her shining curls. It was so pretty, and my hands were stained with the slime from the rocks at the shore, from where I had seen their ship on the horizon and dragged myself, heartsick and weary, back to the city to greet them. My fingernails were ragged, bitten and torn, with peeling flesh at every side. It seemed a desecration for them to touch such an exquisite piece of fabric, but I reached out and tore it from her face all the same. I know there were gasps of horror. But I had to see her face.
Maybe another woman would have reared back or even cried. But not Helen. It was not just her loveliness that was inhuman; I was to learn that her self-possession was unrivalled as well. She looked at me, unflinching, and I looked back.
Her eyes were like glass. I waited for the roar of desolation to come, but I saw nothing except a gleam of hazel fringed with thick lashes. Somewhere behind me, my mother was beside herself, but Helen was calm, and I felt her serenity ripple around me. The veil fluttered from my hand on to the dusty ground.
The moment was broken as Paris steered her around me and towards Priam and Hecabe, whose faces were riven with anxiety. What would they do? Even if they returned her to her husband, the insult had been made. I knew that they agonised, that even Paris’ easy charm could not overcome their fears as excuses slipped fluently from his tongue in what was no doubt a well-rehearsed speech.
I did not care what he said or what they did. No prophecy of disaster had overcome me when I looked at Helen’s face. I had expected a storm to overwhelm my body; to show me in vivid, bloodstained detail what was to rain down on us all, thanks to my selfish, arrogant brother, but none had come. For a moment, I felt a rush of delirious joy – perhaps my presentiment of doom had been mistaken after all; perhaps there was no catastrophe to come.
And then I realised. I had seen nothing in Helen’s eyes because there was nothing new to see. We had known it all for years, from the moment of my mother’s dream. A fire, coming to sweep the city. Troy would fall. And for all that everyone might disbelieve me if I said it aloud, somewhere in their bones, I knew they knew it, too.
8
Elektra
The palace was in chaos. My father was gone for weeks, travelling back and forth across Greece. When he returned, he was constantly receiving visitors in a flurry of activity, gathering as many men as he could. When I asked why so many strangers kept marching into the great throne room, why I would see him standing amid them, his face alight and his fingers jabbing the air as he spoke, my mother only shook her head. It was my sisters who told me.
‘It’s Helen,’ Chrysothemis muttered, pulling me from the room. ‘She was taken away to Troy and they’re going to get her back. There might be a war.’
War was a frightening word. My father looked full of confidence, laughing and clasping the shoulders of the men thronging the palace, as though they were talking about a great adventure. But I was still weak from illness. I didn’t want to come out of my sick chamber into a world turned upside down. I felt tears welling up.
‘Don’t cry, Elektra,’ Iphigenia said. ‘Father doesn’t need to see you upset.’
I took heart from how jovial he was, how full of purpose. In the early morning, I watched from the courtyard as he and a band of visiting men streamed out over the plains towards the woods, a pack of dogs racing before them, all of them exultant to be hunting. They came back as the sun was sinking, and I raced outside to greet them. My father strode in front of them all, his face alight with satisfaction. He ruffled my hair when he saw me, and the dog at his heel jumped up in excitement, pressing its heavy paws on my shoulders, its breath hot against my face. I felt my father watching for my reaction, to see if I was scared. I laughed.