‘Now now, we’ll have no more of that, my boy,’ shouted Orestes, raising his goblet. He limped towards his son, wincing at an old injury. The King of Mykenai’s chiselled features were beginning to soften into flabbiness. ‘Come now, and rejoice with your new mother!’

Tisamenos couldn’t help himself. Rage was fiercely burning within him, and he let it blaze out. ‘No. I won’t rejoice with her, or you, or anyone.’ His voice, unnaturally loud, cut above the joyous bustle, and the procession of guests, laughing, halted to observe what was happening.

‘Isn’t that Orestes’s pup?’ scoffed someone, causing a roar of anticipation to billow through the crowd.

The flame of rebellion coursed deeper inside Tisamenos. ‘I won’t!’ He stepped into the centre of the pillared hall, facing up to Orestes, ignoring the guests. He pointed at Erigone. ‘She is not my mother.’

‘Tisamenos, please …’ said Orestes, quietly.

‘My mother was Hermione, daughter of Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world.’

‘Your mother is dead, my dear,’ said Erigone, gently. ‘She has been dead for a year, and it is time for your father to find a new wife.’ It was exactly the wrong thing to say.

‘A year! She was barely in her tomb when you jumped into his bed!’

Erigone covered her mouth with her hands, exaggerating her shock. ‘Have him beaten!’ she said, sharply. ‘And this happens on my wedding day!’ She began to weep, a hand pressed to her belly, and her attendants fussed around her.

Two servants moved tentatively towards Tisamenos, but he eluded them, and blindly ran at Orestes. He tussled with his father for a moment or two, then beat his fists against the soft wedding robe. Orestes simply gazed at him, while Tisamenos pounded as hard as he could. His father did not react, and, almost sobbing, Tisamenos let his arms drop uselessly.

‘Go now,’ said Orestes, in an undertone. Tisamenos could see a tiny flame of anger in his father’s eyes. It spurred him on. ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’

‘Don’t think you can just get rid of me! It’s not finished!’ He would not be forgotten. Tisamenos was shouting through tears.

‘I tell you – go.’ The little flame was now a fire. Orestes spoke more urgently.

But Tisamenos was not in the mood for tact. It was time, time for everybody to know what he knew. Time for this whole empty business to be torn apart. Ignoring his father, he addressed the whole lot of them, holding his arms up as he had seen the rhetors do when they were trying to prove a defendant’s guilt. ‘Hermione was murdered. I know it! And I’ll prove it!’

A confusion of rumours and excitement rippled through the crowd. Flushed with success, Tisamenos heard the word ‘murder’ being passed along from drunken mouth to drunken mouth. That had shown them.