Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)
Page 15
“It is good to have such faithful servants. I tolerate none.”
The queen sipped her wine, glancing at her guest over the alabaster rim of her cup. “That is truly a solitary existence. I should long for that as well, if—”
“You long for revenge,” Aegisthus said matter-of-factly.
“It grows each day with the rise of Apollo’s light.”
“We have much in common, my lady. I live for nothing else, but this war …” His voice trailed off into silence.
“Provides precious time to plan, if the bastard should ever set foot on Mycenae again.”
Lifting his cup to Clytemnestra, Aegisthus smiled wryly. “Our desires are one.”
The queen refilled their cups by her own hand. “Tell me your story, Aegisthus.”
“I fear it is a gruesome tale, a long tale. Perhaps you would―”
“No words are more dreadful than what I have seen with my own eyes.”
“Very well, then. I will begin with the beginning. Eurystheus had been the king of Mycenae before the sons of Herakles killed him. At that, the Oracle of Mycenae commanded that a son of Pelops be named the new king, establishing a new dynasty for the kingdom. There were two sons, as you know: Atreus, the elder, and Thyestes, the younger. As custom dictates, the elder is the logical choice, the rightful heir. But, the House of Pelops has never been peaceful, as you already know, my lady.”
Clytemnestra acknowledged that as fact with a slight nod.
“Thyestes proposed that the brother who could first produce a lamb’s golden fleece should be named king. It was not unusual for a challenge to be set, when a command is unclear. The Oracle said only a son, not which son should be king. As you know, to possess such a fleece is rare.”
“True enough. I have only seen the one displayed in the great hall.”
“Aye, my lady, that is the very prize of which I speak.”
“Ah. I have always wondered about it, but none would speak of it. Continue.”
“As you wish. The elder son, Atreus, accepted his brother’s challenge because he believed himself the victor. You see, he’d hidden a golden fleece years prior when it should have been offered to Artemis in sacrifice as commanded. Only his wife, Aerope, knew of his deception. What Atreus did not know was that his wife was Thyestes’ lover. Clever woman that she was, she secretly gave Thyestes the prize to win his kingship over Atreus.”
“Clever, indeed,” Clytemnestra said, sipping her wine, lost in thought.
“Atreus was furious with his brother, so he sacrificed and prayed to Zeus who granted him a vision of victory. He claimed that Zeus always intended him, the eldest, to be king and that mortals’ interpretations are fallacious. Only the actions of the gods speak truth. And to prove that he was the rightful king of Mycenae, Zeus would make the sun rise in the west and set in the east the very next day. No one believed such a preposterous claim. But, then entire kingdom waited anxiously for the break of day after a long dark night. The song birds of morning began their calls. No one, in all of Mycenae, slept in anticipation of such an event. All eyes were fixed on the west, where Apollo had disappeared not so long before. And to the astonishment of all, a thin line of light appeared, golden rays shooting up to the heavens. Apollo pulled his chariot back the way he had descended. When evening came, the light disappeared in the east. The god-sign was clear. Atreus was Zeus’ choice and his will must be obeyed. Thyestes was banished from Mycenae.”
“What of Aerope?”
“Atreus, of course, knew it was his wife who had betrayed him, for only she’d known where he’d hidden the golden fleece. The newly-made king suspected his brother had seduced her. And so, he plotted his revenge. Atreus feigned ignorance, urging his brother to return, saying Mycenae was home to both their families. When Thyestes arrived, he was welcomed with open arms by Atreus. A feast was held in honor of the sons of Pelops, uniting at last, to hold fast the new dynasty granted by will of Zeus. Atreus plied his brother with choice wines, parading the kingdom’s most beautiful women before him in dance and song. All this, my lady, a mere diversion, as Atreus carried out his nefarious plot against his younger brother. While the feasting continued, Atreus dispatched a butcher to kill the young sons of Thyestes. His royal nephews mind you. He had the boys decapitated, their arms and legs cut off, and their bodies roasted on spits like animals.”
The queen shuddered. “Even Cronus paid dearly for such an offense.”
“Shall I stop, my lady?”
“No. I would hear it all.”
“Their bodies were carved and placed on silver platters. The steaming meat arrived and Atreus served his brother by his own hand, telling him the meat was a rare delicacy. Thyestes ate his fill, claiming he’d never tasted any meat as sweet. Atreus smiled, asking if his brother could discern the source. When Thyestes could not guess, Atreus stood at the table, all semblances of kindness and goodwill slipping from his face, revealing the malicious intent behind his dark eyes. He signaled for the severed heads and limbs of his nephews to be brought into the hall. Atreus then announced, You are cursed among all men, for you have eaten you own sons, taking great pleasure in the act. Thyestes immediately vomited and ran from the palace.”
The queen rose form her seat, taking her wine with her to the balcony. “Disgusting. And unforgivable.”
“Truly, it was a heinous act.”
“The line of Atreus has long been tainted with shadows,” she said, sipping her wine.
“There is more, my lady, if you care to hear the tale in full. I would not blame you if you did not.”
Clytemnestra shook her head. “Continue.”
“Thyestes made for Delphi straightaway to consult the oracle there, safely away from Mycenae. But, the news he received only deepened his anguish, for he was told that only by fathering a child by his daughter, Pelopia, could he exact his revenge.”
“The gods, they are against us more than they are for us,” Clytemnestra whispered, thinking about her lost son, her dead husband … and her beautiful Iphigenia.
Aegisthus watched the queen sit regally, unflinching. He admired her strength and her iron resolve. “Thyestes, in his distress, fled Delphi for Sicyon, his thoughts confused and his future uncertain. He crossed the small sea, arriving at Sicyon, fully intending to drown himself, as his grief was drowning him with every breath. He found a suitable river, small and unnoticed by the gods, but deep enough. Under cover of night, he crept to the river’s edge and as he stepped into his watery tomb, a light caught his eye across from him. A great fire had been lit, and in its fiery glow he saw a woman. Suddenly, his desperation for life overtook him, pulling him from his intent. Thyestes surprised the woman in the shadows, taking her by force. The act renewed his desire to live. He left the woman there, bloody and disheveled, never once returning to her in thought. He did, however, leave his sword behind.
“Atreus, ever on the hunt for his brother, came across this same young woman in Delphi. Finding her youthful innocence more appealing than his wife’s, he married her, taking her back to Mycenae. She bore him a son soon after, and he named the boy … Aegisthus.”
“You!” Clytemnestra declared. “You are the youngest son of Atreus?” The queen’s fury ignited like a flame on dry tinder. “How is it that my own mother would once again betray me? Placing the cursed blood of another son of Atreus in my house!” She hurled her alabaster cup, full of crimson wine, at Aegisthus. Missing his head, it shattered against the stone wall behind him, staining it red. It dripped down the plaster like thin blood. She launched herself at him, rage blinding her as indignation rose in her blood. “I will kill you with my own hands!” she screamed.
But Aegisthus, stronger and quicker, wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her to silence. “You have not heard all,” he seethed between clenched teeth. “I have told you truthfully, I am the sworn enemy of that house. I would not have set foot in this place unless it was to drive a dagger through Agamemnon’s heart. I am no son of Atreus.”
“His second wife is my mother, but Thyestes is my true father.”
“The rape …”
“Yes, the rape,” he said, as a shadow crossed his face, darkening his eyes and pulling his lips into a thin line. “Remember, it was you called for me. I would not have come otherwise.”
“Apologies, you are guested here at my request.”
Aegisthus released her, as a heavy knock sounded at the door. “My lady! My lady!”
Clytemnestra immediately opened the door, so Neola could see for herself that all was well. The servant rushed in, followed by a dozen armed soldiers. “I heard you cry out, my lady.” Neola eyed the broken cup and the wine-splattered wall.
The queen smiled at Neola’s unwavering loyalty and protection. “Only a misunderstanding, nothing more. All is well, Neola. I give my word … and my gratitude.”
“You are certain?” Skepticism laced her question.
“I am.” She reached for Neola’s hand, assuring her all was well. “Leave me. Aegisthus and I yet have business.” When they were alone again, Clytemnestra said, “You may continue. Pray to the gods there is no need for their return.”
“Very well. Atreus, who raised me as my father, never stopped looking for his brother, my uncle. Years after he remarried, he sent his sons by Aerope, my older brothers, Agamemnon and Menelaus, to Delphi seeking the help of the oracle in finding Thyestes. My brothers were surprised to find Thyestes there of his own accord seeking knowledge of his daughter, Pelopia, and of course, still plotting revenge against his elder brother. You see, after leaving Mycenae and the tragic events of the feast, his daughter had become lost to him. She was his only remaining child by blood.”
“Understandable,” Clytemnestra said, easing back into her chair.
“My brothers overpowered our uncle and brought him back here to Mycenae to face Atreus. Once here, Atreus commanded me, as his son by his second wife, to kill my uncle. Only in obedience to Atreus, did I discover my true father. For as I pulled my blade from its scabbard at my side, Thyestes cried out, ‘Do not kill me with my own blade!’ I had the sword arched and ready to cleave his head from his shoulders, but his words … his words stopped me. I was astounded for it was my mother who had given me the weapon, telling me that it belonged to my true father. It was a secret she and I alone shared.”
Clytemnestra’s eyes widened in disbelief and horror. “Your mother was Pelopia,” she whispered, shaking her head. She couldn’t believe she’d missed the connection.
“I did not believe him, of course, so I sent a servant to fetch my mother. I needed to know how she came upon my supposed uncle’s sword, or confirm his story a falsehood. When she entered, he cried out, ‘Pelopia! My daughter! I have searched for you, and here the gods have hidden you. In the house of my brother!’ He cried tears of joy. I watched as my mother looked Thyestes in the eye, saying that sword belonged to the man who had raped her near a river in Sicyon. My blood ran cold as the melting snow. Thyestes’ tears turned to agony; he kept repeating, ‘I did not know. I did not know.’ My mother, pale as a wraith, looked at the man who was her estranged father, my father, and told him I was his son, conceived the night of her rape. That Atreus had never known. Thyestes wept harder then. Before I could stop her, my mother threw herself on my sword, my true father’s sword. She died in my arms.”
“I am truly sorry, Aegisthus. The House of Pelops is cursed by the gods. What other reason can there be for such horror? Such tragedy?”
“My lady, I could not bring myself to kill my own father, not even with my mother’s fresh blood on my hands. He had not known the woman he’d taken was his daughter.”
Clytemnestra bristled. “He raped her.” She thought about the whispers concerning her own mother’s relations with Zeus. Leda had confided in her that the god had taken her cruelly and unwillingly not once, but twice. She found Aegisthus’ story irreconcilable to the man she knew as Tantalus’ father. The Thyestes that she knew was kind, devoted, and honorable. How could he be so cruel?
“I do not disagree. Yet, I could not bring myself to end his life. Instead, I took the freshly blooded sword to Atreus, telling him I had done the deed. He told me he was proud of me, that I had given him great joy. He made sacrifices to Zeus. And then went to the river to cleanse his body of the deed. That is where I ambushed him, plunging my dagger into his back. The rest, I believe you know. Thyestes became king while Agamemnon and Menelaus hid in Sparta, under your father’s protection, for a time.”
Clytemnestra remained silent for several moments. The darkness of Aegisthus’ tale stole words from her mouth.
“My lady?” Aegisthus inquired as the queen stared off into the chamber. “My lady, are you well?”
“No, I am not well. I fear I shall never be well again.”
“I can depart as quickly as I came, provided you will grant me leave and the means.”
The queen, emerging slowly from her shock, met Aegisthus’ gaze. “You will remain here in Mycenae for as long as your presence pleases me. Your story, however disturbing, is exactly why you must stay.”
Aegisthus shook his head. “I do not see how you could stand to look at me. I―”
“I doubt not the line of Pelops is cursed by the gods, yet it is also the line of my own children by Agamemnon. You are as innocent as they are. You had no choice in your birth. And killing Atreus was just, after what he did to Thyestes. You avenged your father. I find no fault in that.” She paced the floor. “I must end this curse forever.”
“How do you intend to undo what the gods have done, my lady?”
“By ending the life of Agamemnon, if the war does not take him first.”
Aegisthus smiled. “You are truly a queen.”
Clytemnestra returned his smile. “Shall I pour you more wine?”
TWENTY
TROY
1247 BCE
Odysseus stood at the shore, staring out across Poseidon’s blue realm. As Apollo’s light slowly gathered strength behind him, rising above Mount Ida’s towering shoulder, his thoughts filled with Penelope and Telemachus. How old is the boy now? He should be running the halls with Eumaeus breathless behind him. Stealing figs from the kitchen. Tending the land alongside his grandfather, Laërtes, learning Ithaka as he himself had done as a boy. The oracle’s unwelcomed words yet echoed in his ear. The image of Penelope, asleep, the babe nestled in the curve of her arm, stung his heart. The final image of her burned behind his eyes, sacred and private. The separation from her love, her peacefulness, was slowly leaving him, and a more ruthless and cunning man emerged. He did not think she would care for who he was becoming because of this war.
He recalled the reason he was forced to follow the brother kings, bringing his own men to war and death. How many had he lost already? Eurylochus had counted nearly three dozen. Odysseus spat into the sand, the surf washing his hatred to sea. He narrowed his eyes. Palamedes.
As he made his way to his private tent, his determination for retribution grew. He wanted to make Palamedes suffer; no, he needed to make Palamedes suffer. His mind turned over and over, twisting his thoughts until he knew what he must do.
Crystal stars set into the inky black of night lit Odysseus’ path to the prisoners’ camp. Beneath his chiton, he could feel the papyrus scroll pressed close against his chest. He pulled his himation tight about his head, passing his men lounging around the fires dotting the shore. Their bawdy laughter and drinking blinded them to their king walking amongst them. He walked on into the night to the edge of the encampment where the Trojan prisoners were being held. The King of Ithaka slipped through a gap between guards, making his way to a man he knew could help him.
The prisoner lay asleep on a woolen mat on the sand as Odysseus stood over him, kicking him gently with a foot. “Wake, Numarius.”
The man opened his ey
es slowly, and recognizing the voice on the shadows, sat up. “What do you want now?”
“A favor.”
Numarius, suspicious of any westerner, even a king, asked, “What if I refuse?”
Odysseus leaned down close to the man’s face. “I will kill you now.” He pulled a dagger from his waist. “No one will care if a Trojan dies here, Numarius. You all should have died in the battle, if you had been true men.”
Numarius considered his position. “I knew there would be a price for the kindness you extended on my behalf. Extra portions of meat and bread.” He spat. “What terms do you offer me?”
“Your freedom.”
The prisoner laced his fingers together, considering the prize. To be able to return to Troy, his home and his wife. “What would you have me do?”
“Write a letter.”
“A letter? Any man can write a letter.”
“But not in the script of a Trojan.”
“I don’t understand―”
“I want you to compose a letter to a man by name of Palamedes.”
“What would one of your men care that I sent him a letter?”
Odysseus, leaning closer, his hot breath on the prisoner’s cheek, whispered, “Who said the letter would be from you?”
Numarius shook his head, wary of deception. “If the letter is not from me, then who?”
“Priam.”
The prisoner laughed. “No. That would be treason to use the name of my king falsely.”
“Your king will never know. What harm is there in that?” Odysseus stood. “You will go back to Troy, feigning escape.”
Numarius thought about his wife. Her life would be a misery if he died out here in the camp. “I have no papyrus. No ink or coal.”
Odysseus pulled the concealed implements from his chiton. “I come prepared. Hide these. In the morning, when there is light enough, write that you, as Priam, will pay Palamedes in gold if he will betray the camp of Agamemnon.”