‘Her marriage could be arranged; an advantageous one to someone suitable – a wealthy king, far away perhaps,’ I continue, and he nods vehemently. ‘I’m sure we could find someone who is undeterred by our own . . . unorthodox situation.’ Someone prepared to make an alliance with Agamemnon’s murderers, I think. Perhaps they wouldn’t be too hard to find; the more I hear of my husband’s behaviour at Troy, the more I realise how widely shared my loathing of him must be. ‘But then Elektra would be far beyond our surveillance, somewhere with money and power at her disposal.’ I don’t want to mention Orestes, to remind Aegisthus of any threat he could pose. I need to tread so delicately. ‘She could make friends there, sympathetic to what she would tell them. What if she were able to persuade her husband to bring war to Mycenae, to avenge her father on her behalf?’ I reach out and place my hand on his. ‘This marriage she suggests is perfect for us. She will have no army, no resources. She will be close at hand, where we know what she is doing. She thinks that she insults us by doing this, but it is a gift to us that she does not recognise.’
‘I hadn’t considered that,’ he says slowly.
‘Of course not. You were shocked, and rightly so. But when you take the time to think of all the implications . . .’ I leave the sentence hanging.
‘I can see how this would be of benefit.’ He twists his fingers together.
I don’t push him to say more. Instead, I just watch him for a moment. Agamemnon is newly dead; Aegisthus has yet to become accustomed to his power. Neither of us forgets that it was I who wielded the axe, whilst he sat hidden in a far corner of the palace. But in time, I wonder if his recollection of events might shift; if he might begin to imagine a more central role for himself. It will not befit his image as King of Mycenae to think of how he trailed at my skirts for a decade, or to remember where he cowered when Agamemnon’s skull was shattered into fragments. At the moment, my children are a threat to him, but he knows he must be cautious. When he becomes more confident in his new position, that might change. I feel a headache starting to press on my temples. He wants Elektra out of the way. I want to keep her safe. She wants to punish me. Can this strange marriage be the only way for all of us?
‘Agamemnon’s daughter should not marry a king,’ Aegisthus muses. ‘It is better that she is bound to a commoner.’ His face lights up. ‘Of course, it should be so; I wonder that I didn’t see it myself before.’
I call upon my patience. ‘Then it will be done.’ I rise, anxious that if I stay longer, I may give away my anger at hearing him speak of my daughter like this. He exults in her degrad-ation; sees it as fitting for the child of his enemy. But she is my child, too.
He waves his hand to dismiss me, even though I am already leaving. Beyond the courtyard, I pace the length of the long wall that overlooks the valley, that ridiculous tomb central in the landscape, dominating everything around it. I feel that hollowness inside me again. I had four children, I think. I am grateful for Chrysothemis’ quiet submission, her easy marriage that has taken her out of danger. Aegisthus has no fear of her gentle spirit. She will be left alone. But Elektra is too fiery, too full of anger. I had thought that once Agamemnon was dead, I could make her understand, but it has driven her further from me, made her reckless, and so she condemns herself to a life so far beneath her – to escape from me? Or does she despise me so much that she will humiliate herself for the rich pleasure of humiliating me by association? And Orestes . . . Orestes, whose whole life has been subsumed by my grief over Iphigenia, Orestes, who I have never really learned to know. He is cast out somewhere in the world, and I fear that Aegisthus will not be willing to forget him.
For Elektra, I can’t think of the answer. I don’t know where to begin. But my son – the only way I can make sure he is safe is to find him first.
I look out at Agamemnon’s tomb, grotesque in its opulence. He deserved to die, a hundred times over. But Iphigenia is still dead. And the thought torments me that, in avenging her death, I have brought only more suffering down upon my living children’s heads. In all my years lost to sorrow, I am coming to realise how much of their lives I have lost as well.
Somehow, I have to make preparations for Elektra’s wedding. I don’t know how. Will we celebrate it? Feast in honour of such an odd match? Iphigenia’s saffron dress flutters in my memory. Her eyes, wide and serious in the dim light before dawn.
I shake my head to clear the vision away. Elektra will want nothing from me anyway. I feel quite certain she will exult in the most meagre wedding imaginable. But after it is done, however it is done, I must seek out Orestes. I cannot leave this in the hands of watchmen, of anyone whose loyalty could be bribed or beaten from them. I will have to go in search of him myself – and the first place I can think he might be is my childhood home, where Agamemnon’s brother has returned so triumphantly with his recaptured bride. I will have to go to Sparta.