These words are a soothing balm. Poised on the edge of a thousand surging emotions, I blink back tears of sudden and unexpected gratitude. Georgios has always been there alongside me, always ready with something kind to say, always constant in his faith in Agamemnon.
I wonder, now that my father is coming home, what will happen to our friendship. When normal order is restored here, I’m not sure what the leader of all of Greece will think about his daughter sneaking out and talking unsupervised to a humble farmer.
That doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that he’s coming back.
The palace has come to life whilst I’ve been outside. News of the beacons has energised everyone, sent the slaves scurrying and chatter bubbling everywhere. I see the elders of the court, the old men who have submitted to my mother and Aegisthus all this time, hastening to the throne room, their eyes full of confusion.
She’s there, of course, calm and composed, holding forth in the centre of them all. Aegisthus is nowhere to be seen, and I wonder with a burst of exultation if he might have fled – but then I spot him, lurking beside the furthest wall.
‘The war is ended,’ she is declaring. ‘But it will take many weeks for the fleet to sail home. We must be prepared. I have watchmen waiting all the way from the palace to the gulf; they will send word as soon as the ships are sighted.’
I clutch her words to my chest. The hope is almost painful. We are so close to an end to this.
She’s giving directions, telling everyone of the great feast that will be held, of the plans to make in anticipation of the king’s arrival. I wonder if anyone will dare to ask her what she intends to do, but no one does.
The beacons stay aflame for days. I stare out at their glow every night until they burn out and there is nothing but the star-strewn darkness to look upon. I imagine his ships sailing closer with the emergence of every dawn, picture Eos trailing her rosy fingers through the sky above us both, every morning another day closer to the day he comes back. Of all the years I’ve waited, it’s these final weeks that are the slowest, these last days when my impatience is ravenous, when it gnaws away at my peace of mind and shreds any semblance of calm I might have.
But however excruciating the wait might be, there is a sweetness in its sting, a euphoria in the anticipation. Day by day, the time passes, and every fresh dawn brings him nearer to me.
And at last, as I lie awake, watching the window from my bed, the darkness of yet another night softens into ghostly grey skies, and a shout echoes from watchman to watchman across the hills. I sit bolt upright, hardly daring to believe I can truly hear it. But it’s unmistakable. This is it: the news we’ve been waiting for. The fleet has landed, safe on our shores. I feel it surging in my chest, the sweet realisation, an exquisite moment of pure elation, and then I’m alive with energy, my soul awakened from a long winter. I jump up and dress in the soft light. I’ll see my father at last; he’s home, really and truly home. I wonder what I’ll look like to him. Will he recognise me? My fingers fumble. I yank at the fabric, not caring if I pull the fine wool out of shape. Or perhaps I should care. My appearance hasn’t mattered for years, but Agamemnon will see me for the first time since I was a little girl. I want him to be proud of me. I force myself to slow down, to calm my shaking hands. I smooth my hair, taking the longest breaths that I can draw.
It’s busier in the palace than the day the beacons were lit. They’ve been rehearsing for this morning ever since, and the action is smooth and coordinated. Slave-girls hasten to drape magnificent cloths threaded with gold across the walls, encircling the wooden columns with ferns and flowers twisted intricately together, laying gleaming bowls and goblets at the long tables, and piling soft, luxurious cushions on the benches. Fatigue from my sleepless night makes me sway, briefly dis-orientated by it all. It’s really happening, I think to myself, and the elation swells again inside me.
I catch a glimpse of Clytemnestra sweeping through the wide entrance to the throne room, tall and straight-backed as ever, no sign of concern or fear. She hasn’t fled, she isn’t shrinking away. I waver; could the news be bad after all? But then, what is everyone preparing for if not my father’s return? She’s brazening it out, like she has done all along, I think, and in this moment, I admire how fierce she is. Maybe she does have a plan to get through this. Maybe once my father is home, we’ll be a family again.
I follow her. ‘What is this?’ I ask her, and we stare at each other. I can feel it, so close to us, opening up before us, something we have never shared before.