14
Elektra
Maybe in another life, a life in which my father didn’t have to go to war and so my family paid attention to what I was doing, maybe I would never have so much as spoken to the son of a farmer. But a deceitful prince of Troy sailed to Sparta and took my mother’s faithless sister away with him, and I did not live the life I was supposed to lead. So, I talked to him. No one else wanted anything to do with me, after all. They all thought I stayed inside all day, that I would never dare to sneak away. I held my secret wanderings close to my heart, something that belonged to me alone.
That first day, whilst I watched the men toiling beneath the scorching sun, the relentless repetitive rhythm of it hypnotising, I felt a poke on my upper arm and jumped. He had a shock of dark hair, skinny arms. He didn’t smile, and I didn’t either. Clearly the son of one of the farmers, he was ragged and dirty and not like anyone else I had ever spoken to. His name was Georgios and, quickly, he became my friend. If I didn’t steal down to visit him, I seemed to spend days sitting alone. Chrysothemis was always too busy, too distracted to talk to me. She fussed around the baby and looked anxiously after our mother, giving the slaves instructions to bring things to Clytemnestra – broth, wine, platters of fruit – to tempt the queen from her blank despair. I felt the weight of Iphigenia’s name unspoken between us. I knew that Chrysothemis wept for our lost sister, for the closeness they had shared. I suppose I was a poor replacement. So, hour piled up on top of hour, a great oppressive weight of time spent in solitude and tedium, with only the faithful Methepon at my side. In those endless days, with just my dog for company, I felt myself begin to grow inwards, lost in thoughts that built up inside my head like a twisting maze. I went to the fields, unnoticed by my family, waiting for Georgios to be able to slip away unseen. The vast stones of the fortification wall were warm from the sun, and I felt safe when I leaned against them, tracing the cracks between them with my fingers.
‘Cyclopes built these walls,’ I told Georgios.
His eyes widened, and he reached out to touch the stones, too. I looked at his hand, the black dirt under his nails and the grey layer of dust settled into the lines of his knuckles. ‘Did your father meet them?’ he asked.
I laughed. ‘No. I think it was a long time ago.’
‘Maybe his father did, then.’
‘Maybe.’ It was confusing to try to imagine a time before my father had been king here. I pictured the Cyclopes; great hulking giants, hauling the blocks of stone up the hillsides, making the palace safe from invaders. The thought of their faces, the rough expanse of their vast foreheads punctuated by one staring eye, made me feel queasy. My father wouldn’t be scared of them if he had seen them, I was sure. Someone must have commanded them to do it; a king of Mycenae who had been here back then, whose blood must still flow in our veins. I felt a shivery thrill, standing there in the sunlight, thinking of it.
‘Can I stroke the dog?’ Georgios asked.
I shrugged. ‘If he’ll let you.’ No one else in the family was interested in Methepon; he’d become my dog alone since Agamemnon had left. Georgios patted his wide head, cautious at first of his powerful jaws and ferocious appearance, but growing bolder as the dog closed his eyes in bliss. I laughed. ‘I think he likes you.’
Another day, Georgios asked me if I knew how long my father would be away. I shook my head. ‘How long are wars?’
Neither of us knew.
‘Why didn’t your father go?’ I asked him.
‘He’s a farmer, not a soldier,’ Georgios answered. That made sense to me. His father always looked weary and stooped; not very impressive compared to my father’s bearlike and confident stance. They were nothing alike. I felt sorry for Georgios.
‘He says it won’t be long, though,’ Georgios said, and my heart lifted. ‘He says it’s the biggest army that anyone has ever seen so they will easily win.’
I smiled, a rush of exultation washing over me. I was so grateful to him for saying that. No one said Agamemnon’s name around my mother. I hadn’t dared to ask her how long he would be away, though I hardly thought about anything else.
‘My father doesn’t know why they went for Helen, though.’ Georgios looked at me curiously, and I wondered if he knew she was my mother’s sister. ‘He said she’s just a whore.’
A whore. I frowned, puzzled. ‘What does that mean?’
He shrugged. ‘I thought you might know.’