I didn’t. But there was something in the way he said it, the inflection he must have copied from his father, that I liked. There was a bite to it. It was a word you could spit, with something about it that held frustration, a pent-up anger. I didn’t know my aunt, but I hated the sound of her name. If Artemis had demanded her instead of my sister, then my father would never have had to go away. I was glad to have something to call her, in my head at least.
And then one day, Clytemnestra appeared again. Not a shadow of her, drifting down the corridor with her head bowed as though it was she who had died in Aulis. Clytemnestra, looking something like the mother I remembered: her hair shining in the sunlight, a necklace gleaming at her throat, golden threads glimmering through her dress. Her appearance made me jump, jolting me out of the snare of my daydreams. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. I darted a look at Chrysothemis, who looked as perplexed as me. An unfamiliar emotion bubbled up inside me at the sight of her, a flash of hope and recognition intermingled, a twist of unanticipated happiness. But before I could find my voice, I saw that there was someone else. A man, mean and scrawny-looking, trailing after my mother as though he had a right. At my side, I felt Methepon sit up, his hackles rising.
She told us his name. Aegisthus. I stared at him, unease shifting inside me. I didn’t say anything.
Later, I sought out Chrysothemis. She was kneeling in the courtyard, holding Orestes’ hands so that he could stand, his chubby fingers wrapped around hers, a look of fierce concentration on his little face as his knees wobbled beneath him.
‘You know that man with Mother, the visitor?’ I asked her.
She nodded. Her eyes were squinting in the bright glare of the sun, and I couldn’t make out her expression.
‘How long is he staying?’
‘I don’t know.’
I reached out my hand to Orestes and he loosened his grip on Chrysothemis, clamping on to mine instead. His palms were warm and soft and, unsettled as I felt, I laughed at his gummy smile and plump, rounded cheeks. ‘Father should see this,’ I said. ‘His son trying to walk.’ Orestes yelped and I realised I’d squeezed my fist around his too tightly. ‘Sorry!’ I soothed him. ‘Does Aegisthus have news about the war? Is Father coming home?’
Chrysothemis shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe he’s here to help whilst Father is away, though.’ She looked dubiously at Methepon. ‘Should you have that dog here, near Orestes?’
‘He’s our father’s dog,’ I said. ‘He’d never hurt Orestes.’
I bit my lip, hard. Something didn’t feel right about Aegisthus. Maybe it was the way he had been standing, just a bit too close to our mother. Or the nervousness that radiated from him, jangled in the air about him. He didn’t look anything like my father. Agamemnon was a big, broad man. His shoulders filled the doorway. His voice rumbled when he spoke. Those things I could remember, those things I would hold on to. He had left before Orestes was born, and now my brother was taking his first steps and my father’s face was already hazy in my mind.
I hesitated, wondering if I should mention Georgios. He might know something, or be able to find out from his father. But I wasn’t sure that I wanted to share him with my sister. I had a suspicion that she might not approve of our friendship, and besides, I was irritated by her lack of questioning, the way she seemed accepting of this interloper, trusting in our mother.
Orestes stumbled and his face twisted, reddening with an oncoming storm of tears. I disentangled myself as quickly as I could, peeling his fingers from mine and shoving him towards my sister. ‘Come on, Methepon.’ Chrysothemis looked relieved to see us go.
I was right to think that Georgios might have more information about Aegisthus. ‘He lived here before, when he was a little boy,’ he told me. ‘My father remembers him.’
‘Here? In our palace?’
Georgios nodded. ‘Before your father came back, Aegisthus lived here with his father.’ We both paused for a minute, working out the tangle of fathers in the story. ‘Your father came back to be king.’ He lowered his voice and looked at me intently. ‘Your father killed his father.’
‘Why?’
‘Aegisthus’ father, that is. He stole the throne. Agamemnon was supposed to be king, so he came and killed him.’
I felt a cold slither of fear in my spine. ‘Has Aegisthus come to kill us?’ I looked around, starting to panic. ‘Does my mother know?’