Chapter 44 Claret
The door Shepherd exiled me through vanishes, leaving me stranded in a worse prison.
Squeezing my knife’s hilt, I take it all in.
The vaulted, gilded ceiling; the vapours from the bathtub, rising as if in supplication; the tiled floors, still pristine like mirrors.
Mycenae glints with gold and guilt, every surface riddled with recollections.
So many crimes have been committed in these halls …
First to me, then by me – then, if we are to believe the Moirai, to me once more.
But judging by the lack of blood on the floor, this must be early hours in the eve of my revenge.
My two victims have yet to meet my knife.
Which means I have to play my part again, only this time with a difference.
This time I’ve glimpsed beyond the tapestry of mundane existence, I’ve seen the threads of human lives twist and unravel, make new pathways, weave different worlds.
I’ve drunk the broth of miracles, killed screeching shadows, kissed a queen with forest eyes.
I’ve found a verdant kind of love, and watched it fly away.
Pretending to be Klytemnestra should be child’s play.
‘Guards,’ I yell, my voice strong and even, reaching the two men that I know are stationed right outside this chamber. ‘Bring me the Trojan princess.’
Twin spears rattle on the floor in acknowledgement. I had forgotten what it feels like, for my words to be perceived as law. I’m certain I enjoyed it more, before.
I pace, setting the scene from memory. Cassandra is to come in, followed by Agamemnon. I am to lure him in the bath and then –
‘Now I strike down all I said before; no shame to cancel words once they’re out of time.’
I mutter these words with reverence; my planned speech, to confront the court elders once all this is done.
Yet as I speak them, they take on a different meaning.
Maybe I don’t have to retrace my steps. Not entirely.
After all, I didn’t wear this cloak before – and I decide not to take it off.
Let its colour convey my intentions, for anyone with eyes to see.
Cassandra comes in, escorted by the guards who step back to give me privacy.
I do not recall their names, but I do recall their greed.
They’ve taken my bribes for years, coin by precious coin, always with the promise of more, to ensure their silence while their king is slaughtered.
I can use that greed to my advantage now.
‘You called for me, my queen?’ Cassandra’s voice is soft, her words tinged with her Trojan accent, vowels long and sing-song.
Did I use to find that boorish? Barbarian?
All I see now is a frightened woman, too noble to succumb to pleading for what she must suspect awaits her.
Her auburn hair reminds me of Ophelia – her sky-blue eyes of Helene.
A poor imitation, on both counts, yet my heart still aches in phantom familiarity.
I must imagine my sister happier than I left her.
‘Yes. Come closer, child, let me look at you.’
Cassandra obliges, only the smallest challenge in her gaze.
I know how this next part goes. I am supposed to lecture her on proper palatial etiquette, make her believe I will accept her as my husband’s concubine, if she respects me as her ruler.
Then, I’ll make her pour oils in Agamemnon’s bath, and order her to stay here, lest we need her.
A needless cruelty, to have her watch his murder.
I could have slit her throat first and be done with it.
Order my guards to slaughter her outside, away from prying eyes.
I sigh, aware that I have let the silence stretch for too long.
I take her hands and hold them tight. She trembles but does not resist. ‘Tell me truthfully, are you with child? With my husband’s child?’ My husband … What an ill-flavoured word it has become. I hope never to utter it again after tonight.
Cassandra’s blue eyes widen. ‘No, my queen, I swear. I had my blood two days ago.’
Easy enough to prove, if I were so inclined.
But there’s no time. ‘Good. That will make this next part easier.’ I drag Cassandra with me to the back corner of the room, as far away from the guards’ earshot as possible.
I cannot help but notice how the palace holds its breath, how everything feels still and quiet, the air heavy with herbs and expectation.
How this world waits for me to make the next move.
I retrieve a bundle from the floor, hidden behind a pillow in the corner, in case tonight’s events went badly and I had to flee.
Past Klytemnestra planned for everything.
‘This contains bread, a flask of wine and water, several coins. Enough to buy you passage somewhere far away. Change your name. Shorten your speech, so as not to reveal its foreign lilt. Keep your eyes down and you might survive long enough.’
Cassandra blinks. ‘I … don’t understand. Are you banishing me?’
Maybe I should still kill her. Just a little bit.
I huff, exasperated. ‘I’m saving you. You are an innocent in this.
I had a different plan for you, a darker plan, but …
call it divine intervention. I changed my mind.
My guards will take you to the city’s gates, and then you’re on your own.
If you leave here now, I swear: no one will come after you.
Especially not Agamemnon.’ I hold her gaze, hoping she understands what I’m not saying.
The change in her demeanour startles me.
Like a river when a dam breaks, what was once contained within, mounting with tension, now spills out of her.
Cassandra weeps wordlessly, body folding in two; she falls on her knees and hides her cheek on my dress.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ she repeats, over and over, a prayer I don’t deserve.
‘Get up, we don’t have time for such nonsense.’ I thought I was a fair person, before. But who’s to say whether the column of my fairness tilted to cruelty? She deserves to live. ‘Keep those coins secret from the guards, mind you. Tuck them well under your skirts.’
Cassandra gets up and, to my extreme apprehension, kisses my hands. ‘May the Moirai bless you, Klytemnestra, daughter of Leda. May they remove all hardships from your path, and weave you a good ending.’
Wouldn’t that be nice. Yet here I am, at my thread’s end.
‘Thank you, the same to you,’ I say out loud. I call for my guards, explain to them the change in plans, and promise them double the payment if they ensure Cassandra’s safety.
Their brown eyes burn eagerly. ‘Yes, my queen,’ they say in tandem, black beards shining in the soft candlelight.
I watch them leave, Cassandra granting me one last smile, and grab the edge of the bathtub for support. I hadn’t realized I was shaking.
I will need all my strength for this next part.
‘Have you missed me, wife?’
That voice, arrogant, lavish and laden with death, like liquid gold being poured over a skull.
I force myself to look up, meet Agamemnon’s eyes.
I force myself to see his face for what it is; human, still, not stretched in a funereal mask, coated in shadows.
‘Time is a funny thing,’ I respond. ‘Ten years it has been, since you left for Troy. Yet I could swear another decade swiftly passed since we exchanged welcoming words outside, since I retreated to prepare your bath.’
My answer is as honest as I can make it, a white peak over the mountain of things I cannot say. Still, it pleases Agamemnon, as if I have declared my eagerness to serve him.
‘Come,’ I add, ‘rest your weary body in these waters. Your journey is finally at an end.’
That, at least, is true. I will see to it.
Agamemnon comes to me with a trust that would be touching, if it wasn’t further proof of how little he regards me.
He does not even fathom I could harm him; all he sees is the woman who bore his fists and his kids, who kept his throne warm while he was pilfering wealth and slaughtering Trojans.
He turns his back on me, allowing me to unclasp his cloak, his chiton, untie his scabbard.
I take more care this time around as I undress him, the hunger to get him where I want him already sated once before.
I feel no seething hatred as I place his belongings carefully on the floor, then take his hands and guide him into the water.
I even spare a fond look for his body, worn thin from war and wiry at the limbs, the body of the man I was forced to withstand for years of marriage, every nook and cranny and expanse of skin a weapon, wielded against me in some way or other. But no more, now.
The waters slosh and rise as Agamemnon sits in the bath, tilting his head back with a sigh. ‘This is wonderful. Won’t you join me, woman?’
‘Soon,’ I promise, meaning every word. ‘Now close your eyes, let me wash your kingly hair.’ I take a clay bowl filled with aromatic oils and walk behind him, pouring the liquid slowly on his brown curls, careful not to get any in his eyes.
His shoulders melt in relaxation. His eyes close.
I place the bowl gently on the bathtub’s edge and massage his head with both hands.
A parting gift.
He still moans with pleasure as I swiftly find my knife, grabbing his hair with one hand, and shaft him with steel once more.
He thrashes, of course, making a mess, but it’s already done.
My knife has traced its path around his neck, blooming his flesh with blood, severing his ability to scream.
The waters turn a wicked colour, calling me. Claret.
I take a step back from my handiwork, knife still in hand, circling the bathtub slowly to observe all the small but subtle differences.
His body is warm, gushing liquids, any unpleasant scents covered by the bath oils.
His eyes have flung open in his last moments, two olive orbs of horror and confusion. Disbelief.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, though well I know he’s not around to listen any more – if he ever was.
‘I tried to make it nicer for you. But you deserved your death, in any version of our story. You earned it, when you sacrificed your own daughter for vanity, to wage a war that was not needed. And you earned it every day before, and after.’ I close his eyes.
‘May you earn peace in the end. For what awaits you when you reach Shepherd’s realm …
’ I kiss his forehead, suddenly enveloped by a stark, ferocious feeling.
Hatred – but not for him. My lips stay on his cooling skin a breath more, crackling with something like an order, like a curse.
I imagine him a statue made of blood, like the Erinya in that cave, my kiss condemning him to a new kind of existence.
May he be a force of havoc in her precious ordered world.
May her world never recover. ‘Do more than wheezing, this time. Fight for our side, our people. Spare her no suffering.’
My husband’s corpse stays silent.
I allow myself to crumble on the floor, turning my back on the bath and its gory contents.
I know how this next part goes. Or rather, I know how past me planned for it to go.
The guards were meant to gather my court elders at spear point, while I declared myself the ruler of Mycenae.
My elder son, who would predictably resist his father’s fate, his mother’s ascension to the throne, was to be exiled. And yet …
‘Mother of your killer,’ Clotho had called me, back on that beach.
The words were merciless in their simplicity; they left no room for misinterpretation.
And this me, the me who travelled through eternities of doors, the me who has already had her fill of desperate rulers, clinging to power, that me is very tired.
Why go through all this trouble, if my son is fated to come back and kill me?
Perhaps, this way he will feel vindicated.
This way he can focus on rebuilding, become a better king than us.
I take hold of my knife, observing how the coat of blood clings to it, like a tongue trained to thirst on pain and suffering.
Long have the elders spoken of a bad force in this house; a curse that gorges on three generations’ deaths.
As I place the pointy end of blade on skin, forcing my knife to write a new conclusion to my tale, I hope this curse is finally, fully sated.
I watch a brook of blood flow from my wrist, pooling on my cloak.
My dying heart beats faster, frantic, like a flock of birds about to take flight.