The House of Atreus | ONC 2023 Shortlist

XVIII

Something shattered inside of me. I feel the shards rattling around in my chest when I move, like spare coins in your pocket. Every time I breathe, they poke my lungs, tearing my insides apart until I want to scream.

Here I am. Back in Mycenae, back home. Yet I'd rather be at the bottom of the ocean.

The sky is the same grey it was in Aulis on the day the fleet finally sailed for Troy. A huge block, pressing down on me, like it's trying to squash me. The stone lions flanking the gates are unchanged, staring at me through lifeless empty eyes. I look up towards the fortress and the enormous walls enclosing it. They too are grey, weathered from the rain and wind that have been beating down on them for decades. A cold gust picks up as my feet drag me forward, along the path and to the gate, through the palace doors that gape open like a giant maw, waiting to swallow me.

Is this the end? I ask myself. Is this where I accept my fate and go on with my life as it's been woven into the tapestry of this universe? Am I destined to lose all my children? The realisation hits harder than I'd like to admit: I am powerless. Nothing I could've done, could've stopped what happened. I'm a Queen here, but before Fate, I am nothing. Knowing this is like a poison that slowly spreads through my body.

Yet it doesn't stop the hatred. It continues to smoulder and fill the deepest parts of me. We mean nothing to the Gods. I mean nothing to my husband. Our children are just pieces he moves around on his board, trying to figure out his best strategy. The indifference is what pains me the most.

Elektra comes running when she hears voices and commotion in the courtyard. Curiosity has probably dragged her away from her manuscripts, made her run from her tutor. Though only six years old, her tiny legs are fast, her mind already sharp enough to make out the best hiding spots the nurses won't think to look at. If only she'd put as much effort into her studying. She stops short when she lays her eyes on me. Her father's eyes.

"Khaire, Mother," she says, "have you brought me a gift?"

I can't look at her. "No, child. Go back to your studies."

"Not even some pomegranates?" She pouts and her voice turns pleading. "Father always brings me a gift when he comes home from one of his journeys."

"I am not your father," I spit, more forceful than I probably should've. She recoils and with a last look from underneath her furrowed brows, disappears into the hall, ambling back towards the teaching room.

"Mistress." The housekeeper approaches me now, bowing deeply. There's a hopeful glint in her eye, despite my obvious dark mood. "Are there congratulations in order?"

"No," I reply and walk past her, towards my chambers, leaving her standing in the middle of the courtyard, the smile dropping from her face. There's no need to tell her about my journey, the servants that came back with me will fill her in. Poor woman, she's always had a soft spot for both of the girls.

In the morning the whole city will know as well.

* * *

"There's a visitor at the gates, anassa." The slave's voice is barely a whisper. She flexes her hands in front of her as she waits for me to acknowledge her words. Her gaze is cast down towards the floor. She looks like she wants to be anywhere but here, in her queen's chambers.

The servants tried to be attentive at first, bringing me food and drinks on trays that remained untouched. When barely getting out of bed was a tiring act, let alone leaving my chambers. But I could sense their pity. I could see it in their gazes, feel it in the way they lingered around me, hear it in the way they spoke softly around me. As if they didn't want to startle me. It only added fuel to the fire of my anger that was already burning within me.

They say you first try to deny the loss, but I knew that Iphigenia was dead. Slaughtered at the hands of her own father while the whole Greek army stood by watching, hungry for her blood. Grown men leering at a young girl giving her life. I saw it with my own eyes. The war has only just begun and our husbands are already monsters, what will they have become once they return?

I smashed the plates. I broke the amphoras the servants carried into my rooms and threw the flowers that were meant to cheer me up at the walls. What is there to be cheerful about? I screamed until my lungs felt raw, until they too felt like being torn apart by the hatred that clawed at my insides.

Now they've started to fear me, I think. Not in a way they feared me before, as the head of the household. Before, the worst I could do, was tell the King about their misconduct and have him punish them. Now, Agamemnon is gone. He might be gone for a long time. He might not come back at all. I am the one to punish them now. I make them clean up the broken pieces I have smashed on the ground and they kneel before me, apologising for causing my outburst.

Is this what having real power feels like?

The palace gates have been closed to the public. We are in mourning, yet there wasn't even a burial. Nor a body to bring home to. This more than anything, is like a knife to my chest that tears me open. The cut gapes wider and wider with each day and I struggle to keep it together, to keep the broken pieces from falling out and leaving me behind empty.

I should've been the one to wash my daughter's body, to dress her in a long robe and wrap her in the white shroud reserved for only this occasion. I would've curled her thick brown hair as she used to wear it when she was still alive, put a golden necklace around her neck and earrings on her earlobes. She would've looked like the queen she was supposed to be.

But she didn't even get to be lamented. No mourners to sing of the memories shared with her. No funeral to give her soul peace and closure.

"Send them away," I say to the servant girl that's still standing in front of me, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Tell them we don't accept visitors in the palace until the pollution has cleared."

"We already tried, Mistress." Her hands fidget again, bunching the fabric of her roughly spun garment. I stare, irritated, at the way she wrinkles the cloth and open my mouth to tell her to stop but she continues: "He's been at the gate every morning for the last three days. We sent him away but he keeps coming back. He insists on seeing you, anassa."

I feel the pressure of an impending headache building behind my temples. They all do. Now that the King isn't around, all the lower-ranking chieftains and advisers, who have been left behind to look after the kingdom in his absence are coming out of their hiding holes, trying to secure their positions with me. Why can't people simply leave me alone? I don't want to see anyone, I don't want to talk to anyone. I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Who is it?" I ask. "Does this nuisance have a name?"

"He told us his name is Aegisthus, Mistress." The slave ceases her wriggling and smoothes her palms over her dress. "He says he's your husband's cousin."