In the novels, Kadare uses several devices to consider fluid orality and totalitarian narratives in the Trojan war story. One such device is the creation of a dynamic reception history of Iphigenia’s sacrifice, which in his rendering stretches from the Epic Cycle via Aeschylus to modern receptions and realities. For example, the above-mentioned moment in which the narrator first realises that Suzana shares the fate of Iphigenia is brought about by Robert Graves’s book The Greek Myths:
Graves’s book which appears several times in Agamemnon’s Daughter, always at crucial moments in the narrative when additional layers to the meaning of Suzana’s sacrifice are revealed, allows the narrator to understand his own reality in light of the ancient myth.  Sacrifice, which in the communist regime referred to personal sacrifice of the Albanian people,  gets its “grandiose and blood-soaked” precursor in the story of the Trojan war. This allows the narrator to understand Suzana’s termination of their romantic relationship not as a personal, but as a political decision; just like Iphigenia sacrificed herself to allow the Trojan war to unravel. Through such historical and hermeneutic relation, the ancient myth and the modern reality are merged, allowing the narrator to return to the “beginning” and realise that more is at stake here than his personal feelings.
This reframes the question about why Suzana left him into a question about the politics of personal sacrifice. Hoping to grasp the situation, the narrator again turns to the ancient myth. The official mythology, he suggests, makes Iphigenia a symbol of personal sacrifice for the greater cause. After putting down Graves’ book, the narrator recounts the following fragment, not knowing where he remembers it from or if he made it up on the spot:
They offered up Iphigenia
For the sake of our great cause
I’ll carry my darling to the pyre. 
A classicist would immediately realise that the poem is not ancient, but the context in which it appears makes it resemble a fragment from a tragedy or a pre-Homeric epic poem.  The verses are here presented as evidence for the official interpretation of the myth in which Iphigenia is sacrificed for a great cause, the Trojan war. This interpretation, Kadare seems to suggest, essentially fixes the myth’s meaning.
This has further consequences for how the narrator, and we as readers, imagine other sacrifices in history. One recurrent example throughout Agamemnon’s Daughter is Joseph Stalin’s sacrifice of his son Yakov during the Second World War:
Implying that the sacrifices of Iphigenia, Yakov, and Suzana must all be related, Iphigenia’s sacrifice becomes a historical precursor for the official mythology which allows children to be sacrificed for political means; and an interpretive model according to which personal sacrifice is a sacrifice for the higher good. What is more, this narrative is so powerful that it justifies and gives meaning to all sacrifices. The ancient mythology hence allows the narrator to see the bigger picture about Suzana’s decision, but he sees it in a totalitarian narrative that fixes the meaning of the myth; and this meaning demands that he accepts her sacrifice as having a noble cause.
In the background of this mythology, the (imagined) Epic Cycle acts as the origin of the myth about Iphigenia’s sacrifice. When the narrator reflects on the possibility that it was the Successor’s political advisor, re-casted as a modern Calchas, who suggested the termination of Suzana’s relationship, Graves’s book resurfaces:
The mention of the “oldest sources” in connection with Calchas as a “double agent” is of course historically incorrect.  Although the story can be found in Graves, Calchas’s Trojan heritage was a medieval invention, which Kadare must have also read in Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida. Nevertheless, this imaginative reinterpretation of reception history that stretches from the “oldest sources” such as the Epic Cycle, to Aeschylus, to Euripides, to medieval epics, to Shakespeare, and to Robert Graves, who certainly knew the fragments, should not be easily dismissed as erroneous. As Kadare often does in his novels, he is consciously playing with the sources, creating alternative realities to the officially established mythology.
Kadare is here constructing not only an imagined history of reception, but also an alternative to the myth found in Cypria, or rather, his reinvented image of it. Whether he knew that Graves too was reimagining the ancient myth or not,  the narrator pushes back against the interpretation that Calchas was a double agent. He deems it “just too wild, not to say lunatic”  and unhelpful for understanding his own situation. The dismissal of Graves is not total however, because Kadare believes in competing sources and fluid orality, which allows him to invent a new myth in place of the official one. To understand Suzana’s sacrifice, the narrator therefore proposes that the “oldest sources” were wrong and that it must have been Agamemnon himself who came up with the idea that Iphigenia needs to be sacrificed:
Placing the responsibility of Iphigenia’s death to Agamemnon creates an entirely new myth, one in which Agamemnon is likened to a totalitarian leader who sacrifices her daughter for the purpose of gaining absolute control. At this moment, the narrator realises: “It made a new sense of the relations between Agamemnon and the other leaders, of their power struggles and fallback positions, their reasons of state, their use of exemplary punishments, and of terror …”.  Not Iphigenia herself and not Calchas, it was Agamemnon who is responsible for the death of his daughter.
The narrator’s reimagination of the sacrifice is absolute because he reinvents not only mythology but also history. By replacing the official mythology of noble Iphigenia with the myth in which Agamemnon himself sacrifices his daughter, he hopes to create a new chain of receptions and to rewrite history:
Once he accepts that Agamemnon sacrificed Iphigenia for gaining control over the war, it also become clear that Stalin sacrificed Yakov to be allowed to demand the life of others. When this new myth become the origin of personal sacrifice, it creates a new history that finally reveals the totalitarian motives behind the sacrifice of Suzana. “The Trojan War has begun”  concludes the novel; but this time, the Trojan war is perceived as something completely different than before.
Kadare’s playful treatment of the Epic Cycle is a very interesting form of reception, which could be best described as receptive reinvention. In the two novels, the Epic Cycle does not act as the source of reception, but is rather retrospectively invented through its reception history. That Kadare was really thinking about the Epic Cycle can be seen in an essay he published as a preface to an Albanian translation of Aeschylus’s tragedies in 1985, i.e., just a year before he secretly wrote Agamemnon’s Daughter.  The essay, later rewritten and now published as Aeschylus or the Great Loser, begins by reflecting on the sources which the ancient poet had for writing his plays. In addition to Homer, whom Aeschylus “must have known nearly by heart,” Kadare presupposes other non-Homeric poems he used:
This passage neatly represents the inventive play that has been observed in both novels. Awareness of the now-lost “endless epics” and the Theban cycle is apparent,  but the passage also includes an imaginative reinvention of a poem called Agamemnoida, which perhaps refers to the Nostoi known also as The return of the Atreides. What Kadare really knew about these poems is less relevant I believe, much more interesting is his multifaceted understanding of the Cycle. He imagines it as comprising of now-lost poems that were part of a greater mythological universe; he proposes that the Cycle influenced later poets like Homer and Aeschylus; and finally, he suggests that these poems spread across the Balkans and informed its oral traditions.  So, his Epic Cycle is reinvented through reception, because Kadare knows of cyclic poems and even calls some of them by their title (and some titles are themselves imagined); but he does not need to know them per se in order to reflect on the consequences of diachronic authority in oral and written traditions.