From Tantalus, to Pelops, so the fresco moves on to Atreus and Thyestes, who murdered their own brother Chrysippus in their struggle to rule. The painting shows Atreus taking the crown of Mycenae, but not the children of Thyestes boiled and carved up and fed to their father by their own uncle. It shows Agamemnon rising to the throne, his wife and three daughters about him, but no sunrise slaughter. I had told the painter to show only the victories, the events that elevated my husband’s family above all others, knowing all the same that anyone who looked upon it would still think of the darkness and corruption that punctuated these moments, that seeped from the innocent scenes as silently and relentlessly as the fragrance from the flowers permeated the air.
I trace the little painted outline of Iphigenia with my finger. I had thought my heart would be pounding, that the blood would seethe in my veins, that I would tremble with the antici-pation of finishing this at last. Instead, I feel a strange calm settle about me, a certainty that holds me fast to my course. I think again of the still underwater world, how it held me, buoyant and safe, when I kicked through its depths, a carefree girl swimming in the ocean before I ever knew of the House of Atreus at all.
I stroke my daughter’s painted hair and the upward curve of her lips. I hope that among the gloomy shadows of the Underworld, she knows what I will do for her, and that, in the dark, she will smile again.
I sweep through the palace, giving my orders as I go. The confusion is palpable; a bewildered panic sending everyone into a fluster. Everyone except for me. I see myself as though from a distance, gliding smoothly amidst the chaos. I smile into anxious faces, wave away the stuttering starts of questions that no one really dares to ask. I can hear it though, pounding as insistent as a drumbeat. Where is Aegisthus?
They do not know – the elderly men who call themselves advisers, whose words I have never heeded and whose tangible disapproval I have blithely ignored – they cannot understand why I make every preparation to welcome home my husband. They wonder if I plan to pretend the last ten years have not happened, if Aegisthus will melt away as though he was never here. They remember, no doubt, Agamemnon and Menelaus as young men with an army of Spartans behind them, coming to challenge Thyestes in the great throne room I have had bedecked with fine draperies in honour of the king’s return.
I stand and survey the grandeur. I frown. It will not do.
‘You there!’ I gesture at a slave-girl impatiently and she startles to attention at once. ‘These tapestries on the wall, take them down.’ She hovers, momentarily confused. ‘The king has been at war for ten years; he deserves every honour from the moment he arrives home. Lay these on the ground outside, let him walk upon them, cushion his feet from the stony ground with the finest fabrics Mycenae has. He has known no comfort on the sands of Troy; we will treat him as our king – as more than our king. We will give him what he deserves.’
She knows better than to prevaricate. I can hear the keening edge in my voice, the hysteria that threatens to break through my composure at any moment. As she hurries to follow my orders, hissing at the others to help her carry the heavy cloths, I step away from the bustle.
Everything is in place, just as I have planned. Aegisthus hides, his guards hold Elektra, no one else suspects what I have in my heart, and all that is required is my calm and my steadfast purpose to carry me through. I try to slow my racing pulse, to shut out the memory of my daughter’s eyes, to think of nothing but my next step.
In the distance, horns ring out a triumphant blare.
The king returns.
I smooth down my robes, arrange my face into a smile.
Time to welcome him home.
23
Cassandra
The palace is a tomb. I see it rearing from the land, this edifice of monstrous stone, and the reek of death that leeches from its foundations overwhelms the salt scent of the wind.
Yesterday, I watched the dawn from the deck of the ship, where the grim and exhausted survivors of the long voyage gathered in its burning light. The waters glowed red behind us, the sky igniting in monstrous flames. I feared to set foot on the land when we docked. I have never stood on earth that isn’t Trojan soil before. I never dreamed I would be so far from home. I was sick and sore, and I yearned so desperately for the cool stone of Apollo’s temple, its silence and its familiarity.
I don’t know how many weeks we had endured at sea before the storm hit. Even the men knew it was a storm summoned by divine wrath; the fury gathering in the skies was unmistakable. Athena’s belated outrage at the desecration of her temple.