I touch the woman’s face gently. I cradle her trembling jaw. I remember the suddenness of the violence when Agamemnon pulled my daughter against his chest; the spray of blood before I could even scream.
I smooth my thumb against Cassandra’s eyelids, closing them gently. I feel her breath, warm against my palm. I keep my hand steady when I draw the blade against her neck. Even when it is done, and my vision swims with tears and her body slumps against me, I hold her like I held my daughters when they slept in my lap. Even though her blood runs warm through my skirt, I hold her there still. I stroke her hair softly, her dark curls spilling through my fingers as if she is lost in no more than a pleasant slumber, the way I last held Iphigenia.
A tumult erupts in the palace: shrieking voices, slamming doors and clattering footsteps. This is the moment when I should be stepping forth, announcing my triumph. I draw in a long breath and ease Cassandra’s head on to the floor so that I can stand, shaking away the wave of sorrow that rears up and threatens to pull me under just as my victory is complete. No longer do I need to sit in shadowy rooms weeping over a dead girl. My daughter is avenged. Somewhere, she is free.
The door crashes open, the heavy wood juddering against the ancient stone wall. Aegisthus’ eyes widen as he takes me in: blood-spattered and righteous. The sight of the corpse at my feet stops him in his tracks for a moment and I see he is robbed of words, so I speak instead. ‘He is discovered?’
Aegisthus nods. He swallows. His eyes flicker over the scene. ‘Why did you . . .?’ he begins, then shakes his head. ‘We must go – declare ourselves, quell the panic.’
We dreamed of this nearly ten years ago, plotted it out in the hidden darkness together, and we have lingered over the details every night since. Our common purpose, the goal that has united us all this time, our shared grief and rage taking shape at last.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t draw me into an embrace or take my hand to lead me out into the light as we claim our long-awaited triumph. I see how his gaze slips away from me, how his thin face grimaces with something that looks a little like disgust. I can feel a loose peal of laughter building up within me, and I can only imagine what he would think if I let it escape.
The ominous weight of dread presses in on us as we step out into the corridors; fear and shock thicken the air. I think I am smiling, that bubble of repressed mirth threatening to burst, but it isn’t happiness that I feel. The world around me seems muffled and distant. I hear Aegisthus snap at a slave-girl I hadn’t even noticed to summon everyone to the throne room, and I hear how she scuttles away from us, but all I am left with is the lingering impression of her eyes rounded in horror. I think how everyone will shrink from me, and I want to laugh even more. But underneath it all, I feel the hollow void at my core, and how its edges are collapsing in, and I am afraid that I will be lost forever. I keep walking. That is the key. That is what has sustained me since she died; I kept moving forward, intent upon this moment, and now I am here, and I will not let myself think about what happens next.
I didn’t see her. I didn’t feel her. When his legs gave way beneath my blows, she did not guide my arm.
I shake away the thought. There is no time for it.
It is a wary gathering of old men and slaves in the throne room. I feel the bitterness of their stares when we sweep in, Aegisthus and I, but that is all they have. Although Aegisthus prickles against their animosity, his narrow shoulders raised and his thin chest puffed out, I know there is no need. We can afford generosity, he and I. I will bestow certainty upon them, and their loathing will dwindle away, along with their suspicion.
Agamemnon’s body has been carried in and it lies in the centre of the room, still wrapped in the sewn-up robe. Mangled and bloody; a silent accusation. I suck in my cheeks, to stop myself from smiling, and take a step further.
‘I bring you the truth after ten years of lies.’ My voice rings out, clear and true. ‘There is no more deceit in Mycenae, no more hidden secrets. The bloody history of this house stretches back for generations, but I have brought it to an end today. Justice has been done. I have brought down Agamemnon. I have served his sentence upon him.’ What I am saying is no surprise to them, but the shock in the room is palpable. I feel the flush of pride tingling in my chest, an exhilaration humming in my voice. ‘He killed our daughter for a fair wind. An innocent girl. He did not stay to face any punishment. I waited for him to return so that I could make him pay for his crime: the old crime of his forefathers – the slaughter of his own defenceless flesh and blood.’