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 belongingscarefully 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 nicerfor 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 howpast meplanned 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.
45. Anassa
Half-made of raven wings and shadows, I flutter through the wall in Shepherd’s realm, emerging in that other place. That dreadful place, the place Claret once called home.
It looks the same and yet so different.
That bath again, brimming with death; that corpse in rusty waters, quickly cooling.
And Claret, bold, brilliant, beloved Claret, is once more draped in blood.
Only this time the blood is hers.
With a flap of wings I’m perching next to her, not bothering to contain my form, to push my black birds back into my body. I need these corvid eyes to see her wounds, to find a way to save her. I see: one wrist, split open, the other thankfully still hale. Oh Claret, what have you done? Didn’t you tell me we should never do our enemies’ job for them?
