He looked at me. I could see the strain carved across his face, that he must address me as queen, that he must do as I asked whilst Aegisthus sat in his king’s seat, whilst all the while he must be frantically wondering how Agamemnon might punish such disloyalty on his return.
‘And tomorrow,’ I hastened to add, ‘you may go forth from here with gold to prove our gratitude. A merchant ship sails to Etruria laden with pottery and fine jewellery to sell; I am sure they will have a place for an enterprising young man like yourself on board.’
I saw him breathe a fractional sigh of relief at the prospect of escape. ‘What else do you wish to know?’ he asked.
I leaned forward. ‘Is there news of Helen? My sister – do you know if she lives, if she has been seen?’
‘The Greeks have had sight of her, sometimes,’ he answered. ‘Atop the city walls, among the Trojans, but unmistakable even from afar. She lives, but that is all we know.’
I hadn’t expected to hear anything else. Later, as the palace slept and I prowled, I could not keep my mind from going back to her. In Sparta, the daughter that Helen had left behind grew into a young woman whilst my daughter roamed the shadowy Underworld. Did my sister think of Hermione, just a child when she and Paris had crept under the cover of night to his waiting ship? Hermione was older than Iphigenia had become; the younger cousin had overtaken my child, who would be frozen forever at fourteen. And still her mother dallied in a foreign court, the years slipping through her fingers, never to be regained. If my daughter dwelt anywhere in this world, no army or ocean could stop me from reaching her. But Helen stayed away.
I sighed impatiently. And then, from somewhere in the void, I heard the urgent press of whispers. I stiffened, held myself still, and strained to hear.
Deep, gruff, male voices. Not quavering with age or high with youth. My breath caught fast in my throat. Alongside the voices, I could hear the muffled thump and drag of an inert object. Some cursing as they shifted it, and then a low snort of suppressed laughter, harsh and mirthless. Somewhere in the darkness, their footsteps faded into nothing. The wind sighed across the sea and silence settled again.
I stayed out there until dawn began to seep into the sky, dull and ghostly on the horizon.
I slept through the early hours of the day. When I rose, the busy hustle of the morning had calmed to a quiet hum as usual. As I made my way down the corridor towards the throne room, I passed Aegisthus’ guards in a huddle. Their eyes flickered over me as I walked. The low growl of their voices, the bristle of their hulking posture, served as a reminder to anyone at Mycenae who might have thought to question the presence of my consort. I had been reassured by the promise of their protection whilst we waited. But we had waited so long. I doubted that it was respect I saw in their ever-lengthening stares, respect for the queen who had made them guards of a king. Was it restlessness I noted?
My certainty never wavered. But my patience was wearing thin. I wondered if theirs was, too; if the stasis in which we perched, awaiting the end of one battle so that we might fight our own, was stretching everyone’s tolerance to its limits.
I slipped into the anteroom. Through the columns ahead of me, I could see Aegisthus leaning back against the cushions heaped upon his throne.
‘Clytemnestra?’ He straightened, squinted at me through the columns.
I entered the great hall. Between us, the flames flickered in the round hearth in the centre of the room. Four pillars stood around it, and the smoke spiralled up to the blue square of open sky directly above it, a break in the ornate painted patterns that repeated across the ceiling. The pillars were painted in a soft, gold-tinged cream. Each tile of the floor was edged in warm, fiery orange. And across every wall, wild beasts and monsters cavorted in elaborate frescoes, tossing their heads and stamping their hooves; frozen waves stood poised in painted oceans, whilst men and gods strode among it all, bordered in vivid, swirling motifs. History swelled and pressed upon me in this room from every angle; the deeds of the past presented as feats and triumphs to proclaim far and wide. The bloodstain had faded on the floor before this very hearth, but we both saw it every day, as bright as if the blood had just been spilled.
‘Did our guest board the ship this morning?’ I asked. ‘It is a long voyage to Etruria; he will not return before . . . he will not return soon.’
Aegisthus smiled. ‘He was gone before morning.’
I hesitated. Was there an unfamiliar note in his voice? I scrutinised his face. ‘He brought us welcome news. An end in sight to this war.’ An end in sight to our waiting. My fists curled at my sides. ‘I was glad to reward him for that.’