More alone than ever, I tried to avoid them all as much as I could. When I saw my mother and sister talking in the courtyard, just the two of them, I drew to the side, unseen. They looked so alike, the sunlight gleaming from their dark hair, the clean lines of their faces in profile, but whilst Clytemnestra drew herself up tall, Chrysothemis dipped her head in deference. Clytemnestra gestured, her expression full of animation, one hand tucking back a stray strand of hair as the other swept through the air to emphasise whatever it was she was saying. Chrysothemis stood still, thoughtful, never looking up to meet our mother’s eyes.
‘What did she want?’ I demanded afterwards.
‘She wanted to talk to me about – my future.’
‘Your future?’
My sister’s face flushed. ‘Marriage.’
How could we move forward, when our father was still at war, when everything was suspended, waiting for his return? It made me nauseous to think of it.
‘Who?’ I said.
‘I don’t know, not yet. She was just saying – saying that it’s time.’ Chrysothemis shrugged helplessly.
‘How can it be time?’ I couldn’t stand still, pacing across the courtyard, over to the low wall, looking out towards the mountains. My breath surged in my chest, agitation and anger wrestling together, making it hard for me to speak. ‘How can she make plans? How could she choose? It’s our father’s right to do this!’
My sister sighed. ‘I can’t refuse them.’
‘Them?’
‘Mother and Aegisthus.’
‘What does he have to do with it?’
She laughed at this, exasperated. ‘He rules Mycenae along with her. I can’t go against what they say.’
‘So you will marry a man of Aegisthus’ choosing?’ My voice was shrill, and I could see her withdrawing from me, hugging her arms close around her.
‘I don’t see how I can’t.’
My teeth ground together. ‘I would rather die.’
She looked at the ground. ‘I wouldn’t.’
I turned away from her. So that was how I would lose Chrysothemis. She’d marry an ally of Aegisthus, too obedient to make any protest. All I could hope for was what I’d been hoping for since the day he’d left; for Agamemnon to hurry home. But perhaps Chrysothemis didn’t have the faith in him that I did.
Something broke between my sister and me that day. I had no hope any more that the three of us could be allies: Chrysothemis, Orestes and me. Orestes was our father’s son, a young Agamemnon in our home. But he didn’t remember our father; had never even seen him. If Chrysothemis could give up on the man she remembered better than I did, how could I keep Agamemnon alive for Orestes? He was growing up with no father, and our mother had spent less time with him than my sister and I had. It was up to me to make sure that he knew where we came from, what had happened to us, and what we were waiting for. To make sure that when Agamemnon came home, he could be proud of two of his children, at least.
I began to tell my brother stories, recounting the war tales that had been brought home to us, the scraps of information we had received over the years. So much was missing; I had to fill in the blanks. ‘Our father is the leader of the whole army,’ I said. ‘He’s so brave and strong that every man across all of Greece wanted to follow him.’
Orestes looked at me, his eyes wide and steadfast.
‘The gods fight alongside him,’ I went on. ‘They’ve always looked kindly on our family.’
‘If the gods are fighting too, why hasn’t he won yet?’ Orestes asked.
I frowned. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes things go wrong. Like here, in Mycenae. The gods want Agamemnon to be king here, but Aegisthus has come. He’s stolen from us. It’s happened to our family before.’
Orestes looked confused.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, squeezing him closer. ‘I’m here to look after you. Until Father comes back. When Father comes back, he’ll get rid of Aegisthus for us. Everything will be better then.’
He snuggled into me, leaning his head against my shoulder.
‘Tell me more about the war,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the battles Father has won.’
I summoned up all my powers of imagination.
It was the tenth year of fighting, an unimaginable length of time. The boy I had befriended by the farmer’s hut now worked the fields himself, a man. Not a man like Agamemnon; not a tall, proud king with flashing eyes and gleaming hair, whose strong embrace I still remembered. Georgios’ toil shadowed his eyes; his arms were thin despite their sinewy ropes of muscle, and he stooped from his hours of industry. Perhaps it was the patience he developed from his gruelling hours of labour that made him able to listen to me, over and over again. I was sitting on a stone step at the back of the palace, which overlooked the long sweep of rolling hills beneath us; the palace being built atop the tallest. Scrubby trees dotted the landscape and the late afternoon sun cast a golden glow across it all. I wished its beauty could touch me, rouse some kind of emotion. I felt the absence of the dog at my side. I still reached down sometimes to stroke his head before I remembered that he was gone.