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“Your hair…”
It’s not what I was planning on saying, but it escapes my lips before I can contain it. My daughter has always had long, beautiful curls, as golden as the precious jewelry my son-in-law would gift her; crowns and diadems and necklaces and earrings and brooches. On her wedding day, I remember, she was dripping gold from head to toe. And I stood there watching, proud that my favourite child - my only child - was marrying the wealthiest and most powerful of all kings.
A memory once held dear, with such a bitter aftertaste.
She’s holding her infant son, the heir that Agamemnon expected so eagerly. There was a celebration on the day of his birth; a hundred oxen sacrificed to Zeus. Back then, the altar was reserved only for cattle.
“Father,” she cries as I take both of them into my arms, “my baby, he took my baby…”
I kiss what’s left of her hair, which has been haphazardly cut - I picture her chopping it off with a knife, streams of tears furrowing her cheeks, and my heart sinks to my stomach.
“My love,” I say and she lays her head on my chest, “if only I had known… I would have stopped him.”
“You couldn’t have, father. The entire army was roaring, chanting for the sacrifice. My child’s blood is on their hands too.”
“And all of this for your sister…”
“No,” she shakes her head, “I do not blame her. She was unhappy, you know this better than I do. Only the Atreides are responsible; it isn’t Helen who drove a blade through the throat of my child.”
I knew these children of Zeus would be trouble since the day my wife gave birth to them. And yet I raised them as my own, desperately trying to forget that they weren’t. But Clytemnestra has always been my favourite; independent, sharp-minded, skilled enough at diplomacy to be my trusted advisor. Marrying Agamemnon was supposed to be a blessing for her, and how she wanted it! What a lovely couple they made, what charming grandchildren they gave me! I should have known he was a cruel man, I should have protected my daughter, but he fooled all of us. And now we’re past the point of no return.
Dark circles hang under her eyes and she looks like she hasn’t slept or eaten in days. Her face is scratched up - her own doing, I assume, in mourning her daughter. She barely has the strength to hold the baby for much longer.
“Do you want me to take him?”
She nods and I lift Orestes in my arms as she collapses on her throne - how small she looks in it now, only a shadow of the illustrious queen I often had the chance to admire during my visits to Mycenae. The child, I notice now, resembles his father greatly. But he has Clytemnestra’s big blue eyes.
“I can only imagine how you feel,” I say, cradling my grandson. “If anyone were to murder my daughter, I would make sure he’d regret it.”
“Sometimes,” she whispers, “and please, father, don’t judge me for saying this… Sometimes I pray he’ll die in Troy. I cannot bear the idea of having to face him again, the idea of living out my days next to my daughter’s murderer…”
“Do you really pray for such a thing?”
She bites her lip. “I thought you’d understand.”
“Of course I understand. But do you really wish him a glorious death in battle? So that everyone can hail him as a hero long after he’s gone? That would be too easy on him, Clytemnestra.”
A lost spark reappears in her eyes. “What are you suggesting, then?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply reminding you that you have my unending support. Agamemnon was my ally, but my true loyalty always lies with you.” I caress her face, wipe the tears off her eyes. “You need to be strong now. You have a kingdom to run, don’t forget it. And if he returns… you’ll be prepared, won’t you?”
“I’m only a woman. I don’t stand a chance against him.”
“Build alliances, then. When a king is away, his power can be compromised.”
“Alliances?”
“You have mine - that’s a start, isn’t it?”
She stares at me in thoughtful silence, that vacant look of defeat suddenly fading from her features. There has always been an understanding between us, a connection. Taking a deep breath, she rises from her throne and approaches me. “Blood can only be washed off with blood,” she whispers. “You’re right, father. I will be ready.”