Iphigenia gave a ragged sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Psyche,’ she said, collapsing on the bed and throwing an arm over her face. ‘It’s not really about the clothes. The wedding is in two days. Two days! I know I’m lucky to be marrying Achilles. At least I like him. Elektra will probably be married off to a Trojan prince for a peace treaty, and I get our army’s champion. But gods help me, I miss being a priestess, Psyche. I miss it so much.’ She drew in a choked breath, and I thought she might cry.
I wrapped my arms around my cousin, drinking in the once-familiar scent of her curly hair. She leaned into me, her arms snaking around my torso.
‘It was one thing to become a priestess when Father was a simple mercenary,’ Iphigenia continued. ‘Now he’s a king and the commander of the greatest army Greece has ever seen. ButI’m afraid, Psyche. What kind of husband will Achilles be? What will the wedding night be like?’ She hesitated, then asked, ‘What was yours like, Psyche?’
I smiled at the memory. ‘He snuck up on me in the darkness and I hit him with a fire-poker.’
Iphigenia gasped, pulling away so that she could look at me. When she realized I was serious, she dissolved into laughter as pure as spring snowmelt. I joined in, unable to help myself. For a moment we were children again, sneaking into an abandoned courtyard to practice archery.
‘Did you love him, your husband?’ my cousin asked when we recovered.
The question startled me, and I pulled away from Iphigenia. I frowned at the floor, considering her question. I thought about the nights Eros and I had spent under the new moon, the stories we had whispered to each other. The archery contests in darkened rooms, his steady presence by my side in the shape of various animals during our journeying. Was this love I felt, this sparkling happiness? With sudden shock, I knew the truth.
‘Yes, I love him,’ I replied. ‘I still do. That isn’t in the past.’
‘Of course,’ Iphigenia said, her glance sliding away from my face. She, like everyone else in Mycenae, thought that my husband was dead.
Eros was not dead, could not die, but that didn’t matter. Whatever the truth of my own feelings, his had been nothing but an accident and a curse. He had further proven his indifference through his absence during my wanderings in the wilderness. I pushed the memory of Eros from my mind, painful though it was, and turned back to Iphigenia.
‘Psyche,’ Iphigenia began, her brown eyes liquid and lambent. ‘Will you come to my wedding at Aulis?’
I took her hand. ‘Of course,’ I replied.
Iphigenia let out the breath she had been holding and clutched my hand so tightly it threatened to go numb. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
I squeezed her hand in return and tried not to give any sign of the idea that sparked to life in my mind: that perhaps once Agamemnon sailed away to his foolish war, I could take the throne of Mycenae myself, even if unofficially. Even if it set a wedge between Iphigenia and me forever.
‘I’m so glad you’ll be there,’ Iphigenia continued. ‘It will be a relief to have you with me. Otherwise it would just be me and Elektra and Mother, and you know how Mother can be.’
I did. It was as though Clytemnestra feared she would cease to exist if she was not complaining about something.
‘Don’t worry,’ I assured my cousin. ‘Your mother can’t keep up her nagging all the way to Aulis.’
28
Psyche
I was appalled to discover that Clytemnestra could, in fact, keep up her nagging all the way to Aulis.
She nagged Iphigenia for slouching, yawning, speaking too much, and then for speaking too little. We were packed tightly into the carriage as it bumped haphazardly over the road, and I could feel the spray of Clytemnestra’s breath as she continued her unyielding invective.
It was Elektra who finally spoke up. An infant when I had seen her last, Iphigenia’s sister was now about six years old. She was small and solemn, a miniature version of her disapproving mother, one of those children who seem to have been born middle-aged.
‘Mother,’ Elektra interrupted, ‘Iphigenia knows how to sit and speak. She’s going to be a married woman soon with a house of her own. Let her be.’
For a moment I thought that Clytemnestra would strike the girl, but instead she huffed and turned away to face the dusty curtains. ‘I just want to make sure she’s well-prepared, that’s all,’ Clytemnestra spat. ‘This is a very difficult day for me.’
Iphigenia looked exhausted, as if she had been drained of some vital essence. She reached out a hand and laid it on hermother’s, linking fingers, and Clytemnestra’s harsh expression faded. Elektra sighed heavily and turned her attention to the floor, but to my relief no one spoke again until we arrived at Aulis.
When our carriage finally shuddered to a stop, I lifted one of the curtains and peered out at the Greek camp. I saw hundreds of ships docked at the harbour – longships and triremes, with eyes painted on the hulls so that each craft could see its way.
There were men everywhere. They picked fights with one another or oiled their shields as the sun bronzed their naked backs. Maleness floated like a ground mist over the camp. Clytemnestra reached over and yanked the curtains shut.
Stale, blisteringly hot air filled the enclosed space, and sweat began to trickle down my back. I wanted to disembark, but Clytemnestra refused.
‘We will wait for my husband to greet us,’ she stated primly, hands in her lap. ‘That is the proper way.’ Sweat beaded her upper lip and dripped down her temples.
When at last someone arrived, it was not Agamemnon but Odysseus. ‘It seems I shall serve as your host!’ Odd chuckled, all laughter and merriment now that it served his purpose. ‘Your husband sends his regrets, queen Clytemnestra, but he has been pulled away by his war councils.’
