He is older, far greyer and more grizzled than ten years in Mycenae would have rendered him, though I warrant the men at his heels are still more haggard and worn than their leader. Still, even if he conducted his war from the relative comforts of his tent and rarely graced the battlefield with his presence, the toll is carved on the lines of his face and the greying bristles on his chin. Looking at him does not make it all flood back: I do not feel the sagging weight of her body in my arms; I am not tugged beneath the surface by the memory of her empty gaze as her head rolled back under that pitiless sky.
Rather, I feel the momentum building within me; the surging swell that warms my blood. I had feared the distraction of emotion, but instead it primes me, makes me stand taller, curls my lip into a smile that I hope will pass for one of welcome.
He does not pause at the great square entrance, flanked by thick stone and topped with two carved lionesses, but instead he sweeps through without so much as a glance to either side. And then he is right before me, and his eyes meet mine at last.
‘Welcome home,’ I say. I wonder for a moment if he is going to embrace me, and as I repress a shudder at the thought of being held in his arms, pressed close to his body again, I take a step backwards and gesture to the somewhat meagre gathering of palace elders and slaves who are lined up outside to greet him. ‘We thank the gods for your great victory and your safe return.’ This at least is true.
He inclines his head slightly, an acknowledgement of the gods’ benevolence without an outright declaration of gratitude. I can feel his irritation, how it needles him not to receive the praise himself, though he cannot say it out loud. Ten years apart and I still know what will spark his anger, how tender his ego is and how easy it is to bruise.
‘We are weary indeed,’ he says, and I flinch at the sound of his voice again.
‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘The women have prepared baths, wine, food for you all. Please, allow your men to be taken inside.’
Agamemnon runs his gaze across those gathered to welcome him home and frowns. ‘Where are my daughters?’ he asks. The unspoken thought flits between us; I know he feels it hum in the air, but the furrows in his brow only deepen, and he tosses his head a little as though batting away a troublesome fly. ‘And my son, whom I have never met. Why is he not here to greet me?’
I hold my smile. I do not know how this man dares to speak of his children. ‘It is yet early in the day,’ I say lightly. ‘Surely you want to bathe, to eat and to rest first of all? We have everything prepared for you.’
He looks aggrieved, but makes to step forward. I force myself to take his arm.
‘You are a king,’ I breathe. ‘Do not step where the common soldiers trod.’ I stand back. ‘We have laid out our finest tapestries for you to walk upon.’
At this, I hear a stifled gasp from the woman who stands a pace behind him, partly hidden by his bulk. I have held my gaze steadfastly away from her. I know what she is, and it is beyond anything I can comprehend that he marches her up to the palace in full view of us all, that he stands in front of his wife with this woman cowering at his back. Now, I let myself look at her. Dark, tangled hair. A bruise blooming at her temple. I don’t want to think about how she acquired it. Great, dark eyes, cast down to the ground – until now, when she glances up, seemingly unable to stop herself. When I look into the depths of those eyes, I feel something touch me, pressing right into the raw wound of my soul. All at once, I have to blink back tears.
Agamemnon notices me looking at her and smiles briefly. ‘A princess of Troy,’ he says. He savours the words slowly. ‘Cassandra, priestess of Apollo, great protector of the city.’ His laugh is mirthless, but the woman does not flinch. Her glassy eyes stare blankly at the embroidered cloths on the ground. When my husband follows her gaze, confusion and annoyance mingle across his features, wiping away his smug satisfaction. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he snaps.
I tear my gaze away from the woman. ‘Why, a carpet laid out in your honour.’ The words spill out as smooth as cream.
He huffs, indignant and ridiculous, and I feel my stomach curdle to think this man has ever touched me. ‘Tapestries, Clytemnestra?’ he asks, incredulous. ‘I hardly dare to think of stepping on such finery; it is what we set out for the gods, and not for any mortal man to desecrate.’
A laugh nearly startles from me before I suppress it. What is this – self-awareness? Humility? Perhaps the war has taught him something after all. I shake back my hair, smiling still. ‘How humble you are, how full of respect for the gods,’ I soothe. ‘Be sure of it; they note your modesty. But you are no ordinary man, Agamemnon, you are something other than the rest of them.’ I pause. ‘You led your army in the mightiest war that Greece has ever known, and you return victorious. Troy smoulders in ruins, the impermeable citadel cracked apart by you and your men, its riches yours. What man has accomplished such a thing before? No one of mere mortal birth, surely.’ I force myself to step closer to him again, to turn my eyes up to his, clear and steady. ‘You bring with you a daughter of King Priam himself. Just imagine what he would have done if he had conquered the Greeks. He would not shrink away from stepping upon rich, purple cloths. He would take it as his due as the victor of this war. Do the same, Agamemnon. Do not deny yourself this glory.’