ELECTRA
by
KERRY GREENWOOD
My sandals were made to glide over the marble floor of the Palace of Mycenae, not to walk the road like a common market trader.
Of course, as a princess, I was unused to walking.
Only female slaves and whores are seen in public.
Only female slaves and whores walk.
Electra is forced to flee her home after witnessing the shocking murder of her father, but life outside the palace walls is frightening.
The free and easy ways of her foreign companions disturb her - especially the scandalous relationship between the Trojan woman, Cassandra, and the two men - but she needs their help to survive.
Along the way Electra's travels, driven by a burning desire for revenge, become a different kind of journey.
Kerry Greenwood's Electra evokes the dark perils and pleasures of the ancient world with a contemporary sensual intensity.
The Gods were quarrelling, as the Gods often do. Olympus, the abode of Immortals, was crowned with the marble cirque where the Wells of Seeing lay, deep waters wherein the Makers could view the earth.
Aphrodite the Stranger, Goddess of Erotic Love, and Apollo Sun-Bright, God of Learning, son of Zeus, had not resolved their wager.
Cassandra, daughter of Priam, and Diomenes the Argive, the Healer-Priest of Asclepius, had been their puppets, acting out the play of the Gods through war and the fall of Troy. The city lay in ruin, and enslaved Cassandra was being brought to Mycenae by Agamemnon, the victorious king. Diomenes followed in the wake of the army.
Aphrodite had wagered the golden apple on her own power, that of love. Apollo had set against this, fate and death. The outcome was still in the balance.
The golden apple spun in the air, the gage of Aphrodite's wager with Apollo Sun-God. As he reached out a hand to catch it, a great bell sounded, shivering the drowsy eternal afternoon.
'Children,' announced Zeus the Father with solemn majesty. 'Leave your squabbling over the daughter of Priam, much-tried Cassandra. Troy is dust.
My son Apollo, your favourite, Diomenes Chryse the Asclepius Priest, shall love or not love as he wishes.
Your favourite, Lady Demeter, Cassandra, captive of Agamemnon, shall live or die as fate wills. Cut the strings of these minor puppets, children, make peace with each other. There is a greater matter to be considered. Your intervention has woven their threads into a tapestry in which
all
the Gods are interested.'
'Lord?' asked Athena of the glittering helmet. 'What matters?'
'The House of Atreus,' the great voice intoned.
The golden apple fell to the marble floor unheeded.
I knew she was going to kill him when she laid out the sacred tapestries.
I stood at the head of the marble stairs and watched them unroll across the floor, blurred by the feet of the children of Atreus. Intricately embroidered, many-figured with holy beasts, bulls and lambs and horses dancing to the altar to die in the worship of the Gods. Black, like the splashed blood of the sacrifice.
Before dawn the watchers had cried that the signal fires were burning to announce the return of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, from the sack of Troy. I went out, wrapped only in a thin chiton, and sighted the points of greedy light on the surrounding hills. He had been long away, my father, the King of Mycenae, and many things had happened in his absence.
She had taken a lover. Queen Clytemnestra, my mother, had welcomed into her bed the revenge child Aegisthus, my uncle. He was the son of incest between his father Thyestes, brother to my father, and his own daughter, a priestess of the river. He existed to enact his father's vengeance on the House of Atreus, for Atreus' murder of Thyestes' children. Before he came, I had not known how well I could hate.
I hate very well.
Part of me did not really believe that she could kill him. My tall father, dazzling in his bronze armour, tall as a giant, strong as a bull. When he had gone with the army to harry Troy, ten years before, I had been twelve and a child, believing that the world was a safe place for Laodice, called Electra, Princess of Golden Mycenae. I had given him my bunch of windflowers and he had fastened them on the shoulder of his harness. He had picked me up and hugged me, smelling of leather and wine, and I had snuggled closer to him, begging to be allowed to come, at least as far as Navplio and the beaches where the black ships lay, keel to keel, waiting for the wind.