A beginning

His bath must be cold by now. Old white flesh hidden in wine dark water. Will it still smell though? It smelled like a birth. I knew how much blood there would be. Only yesterday, I watched as the servants butchered fatted calves for his feast, their blood surging out like an upended bucket. But the smell. I will never forget that smell of new life filling the room.

My husband sent messengers of course. Even after a decade away my husband would rather be late than unannounced. The great king had to be welcomed by the whole palace. So he waited a day, camped in the wilderness while I was informed that the war is won, my sister is returned to her husband and that my lord is to take up his great seat again. My husband was always so conscious of his importance. Of his role as the Greatest of the Achaeans. That’s much of why he lead them to their slaughter on the plains of Troy. And now he lies cold and pale in a bath of his own stinking blood. No noble death in battle for Agamemnon the mighty. He’d hate that. Hate to know that he’d died at a woman’s hands. But I did kill him. He had not been home an hour.

They all rode round the corner and up the path to the palace gate. For a moment I wondered why this wrinkled old man with a matted grey beard was wearing my husband’s great bronze helm with its blue crest. Then his eyes met mine and I knew Agamemnon. My chest thrummed and tightened, my guts twisted and stabbed. He brought the horse to a halt and slid from the saddle easily enough. I knelt on the rough ground, sharp stones slicing at my shins even through my dress and looked up to welcome him. I made wide eyes and smiled as I carefully spoke the words I had rehearsed.

“Welcome home, my glorious lord. Mycenae is yours and celebrates your return in victory.”

He smiled a little at that. The war had not changed his love of flattery. I embraced him, and even though his beard was rough and his lips cold I kissed him soft and warm. He smelled rank, like a horse left unwashed for days. He smelled of smoke and death. He smelled just the way he did the first time he raped me.

I led him to my chambers. He looked with surprised eyes. Of course, the vases, tapestries and flowers had not been here in his time. What did he expect? That nothing would change in ten years? That he’d return as if he’d never been away?

The copper bath was already full. The water was hot, steam swirled up from it, scented with heady lavender and sage. The candles burned all around, casting their tender light. He took a great breath and I saw some weight fall from him. His shoulders seemed to relax.

“You must be thirsty after your journey. Some wine, my lord?”

My skin stretched and twitched as I smiled again. Was I smiling too much? Would he realise my deceit? I gestured to the jug and cup. He grunted assent and slurped at the wine I poured him. Half of it went in his beard or ran down his grubby leathers. I poured another and while he gulped noisily I began to unbuckle his armour. The straps were covered in lines, and so soft. Like Laertes. Only a baby when –

But I get ahead of myself. Agamemnon’s armour. It slipped off so easily. How many thousands of times, in the long years of the war, had his servants removed it? No more. When he was naked and the cup empty he dropped it to the floor. One hand grabbed my hair, and although his rough hand tugged and hurt me I did not cry out. His other grasped at my breast through my dress. A little growl came from his throat. No. Not again. I had sworn that to myself every day since he departed. Never again. Ice shot up my spine, tendrils stretching like a swift frost. As I spoke my tongue felt too big, its edges catching on my teeth.

“No..not yet my lord. Be bathed. Let me attend to you. Let me anoint you, my victorious king, oh pride oh master of all the Achaeans. After that I will attend to you in all the ways a wife should.”

Perhaps my words swayed him. Perhaps his age and the aches of his toils did. It doesn’t matter. His hands dropped away. I breathed out a little and grasped two of his fingers in my whole hand. His fingers were greasy. They smelled metallic and sweet. I led him to the bath. He clambered in, all groans and splashes. Water sloshed up onto my dress. The scented oils would ruin it. He didn’t notice, only sighed and slid back until only his head and neck showed. His filthy beard spread in the water, and as I looked down it seemed to me that it made an omega about his head.

“I would shave you now my lord.”

“My beard is fine, child.”

He always called me that. Always had, since the first time he saw me.

“Your guests will think less of me if you are not shaved before the feast. A great king such as you must ensure his guests think well of his wife. For if they do not, then they may think less of him too.”

He spoke softly. “Nonsense.”

“They will. They’ll say Mighty Agamemnon, King of All the Achaeans, Victor of Troy, Master of the Aegean and for all that his wife doesn’t do her duty and make him neat and proper for the feast.”

His eyes closed. He sighed. “Very well. Tidy it a little about the neck and cheeks.”

“As you say, my lord.”

I brought the oil and razor. The candles all about were so bright. For a moment I was surrounded by the stars themselves. My legs trembled, as though I were standing on a high cliff. I knelt behind his head. The oil smelled of cedar wood, thick and heavy. The oily water of the bath shone gold and silver. I worked the oil across his throat with my fingers. There was no need for haste. He made a little noise of pleasure in his throat and his breathing slowed. A little bile rose in my mouth, acid at the base of my tongue. I swallowed it down. It was good he could not see my face.

He saw nothing. I brought the bronze razor up. I trusted it, had sharpened it myself earlier that day. Tested its edge. I lent over him, my husband, my rapist, the murderer of two of my children. I pressed the razor in and pulled it sideways. I thought it would be a single movement, but there was a resistance, as though something fibrous held back the blade for a moment. But then it passed and there was a splash as blood shot from him. The air stank of wet coins. The water turned the colour of wine.

He opened his eyes and mouth all at once. His lips moved like a fish on land, struggling for air. He was trying to make words, but could not. I bent to his ear, and hissed at him.

“Laertes. Iphigenia. Laertes. Iphigenia. Laertes. Iphigenia. Did you think I had forgotten?”

His lips didn’t move. Nor did his eyes, though they sparkled with reflected candlelight. Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, Lord of the Host of the Achaeans, was dead. At last I was free.