“Send honeyed wine and fresh bread,” the queen said, leaving the women to their chores. Penelope had come to trust Stefanie more than the other maids, save Eurycleia. Stefanie had a watchful eye where Telemachus was concerned, and the seriousness of an old woman. Penelope thought perhaps her faithful maid needed a husband.
The queen walked the dusty road lined with ancient olive trees heavy with darkening fruit. Beyond those silver-grey tipped branches, tall cypress and pine trees towered, stretching their limbs into the pale blue sky. Wisps of clouds, swirled by the breath of Aeolus, floated high above her. Since her husband’s departure, the joy she’d taken in the beauty of Ithaka had faded. With each passing year, her sadness grew heavier. Sleep had become her only true respite from the daily grief of loneliness and worry.
As she approached the shelter and stable of Eumaeus, she heard the sweet and merry sound of Telemachus’ laughter. Rounding the final curve in the path, she saw her son running in a pen with a dozen baby goats jumping and skittering about his feet. The queen couldn’t help but smile. Her heart rejoiced quietly knowing her son thrived despite his father’s absence. Someday, he would take Odysseus’ place as king and she hoped that she and Odysseus would retire to a small farm of their own, as Laertes had. Maybe a gaggle of grandchildren at their feet listening raptly to tales spun by their old, grey grandfather. Yes, she thought, bring Odysseus home so we may grow old together, rejoicing in our legacy.
Anticlea, catching sight of her daughter-in-law, smiled warmly and waved Penelope over to join her under the shade of an ancient fig tree. “It is good to see you up and about. You cannot always be prisoner to your bed of sorrows.”
Penelope placed her hand on her mother-in-law’s, noting the strength the elder woman possessed. “Your will is iron compared to mine, dear Mother.”
“Nonsense, daughter. You have managed the palace well in my son’s absence.”
“Only with your help,” the queen said, studying their entwined fingers.
“All who rule must lean on someone or other. You have done well, Penelope. Ruled justly, according to all the laws and traditions.”
“Again, only by your guidance.”
Anticlea kissed her daughter-in-law’s pale cheek. “You must walk in the sun more often. Let Apollo’s light wash some of the sadness from your face. Come.” She stood, taking Penelope’s hand. “Eumaeus! Mind Telemachus. We are going to walk to the bay.”
“As you wish, my lady!” the goatherd hollered back. “We will be making the rounds up in the hills soon.”
The two women walked side by side for a long distance with no words passing between them. The dusty road became pebbles beneath their feet, and soon the view of the blue-green Bay of Ithaka opened wide before them. The salty breeze mixed with the scent of wind-swept pines stinging their noses with its bitter freshness.
“I forget that I love this place, until I am here again,” Penelope said, slipping her sandals from her feet. “The water will be cool, I imagine.”
“Yes,” Anticlea replied, following suit. “It is good to see you smile, daughter.”
The sand softly crunched as they strolled through the thin surf washing up to the shore. “Mother, may I ask you a question?” Penelope asked.
Anticlea nodded and stared straight ahead.
“If Odysseus should not…if he…how am I to raise my son to be a king and a warrior? I know nothing of battle and warfare.”
“True, Laertes’ consistent hand guided Odysseus, but do not underestimate the power of a mother. Who do you think it is that gentles the wildness and recklessness of men? It is not by words of fathers and uncles that men learn compassion … resiliency and gather inner strength for their iron hearts. No, it is by their mothers they gain such gifts.”
Penelope considered her second mother’s wisdom. “Truth is there.”
“I raised a king. And you must do the same. I know you will find the way to raise Telemachus in strength to manhood. Now tell me, daughter, how my son won your hand and your heart.”
Penelope laughed. “You have heard the tale oft enough to tell it yourself.”
“Yes, but it is sweeter to me when I hear it through the sound of your love for him.”
They walked along the wet shoreline and the young queen began, “He found me hiding behind a pillar watching Helen’s suitors. There were so many of them. Noisy and boisterous. Bragging about their gifts and hunting skills. Odysseus came up behind me and whispered in my ear …
“My lady, you are most beautiful.
“I asked him if he had come for Helen, and he answered, ‘I admit, I came with expectations. But now, seeing you, it is not Helen I desire.’
“I was embarrassed by his boldness. I could not imagine any of the suitors choosing me over Helen. He noticed I was blushing. He told me Helen’s beauty would burn men in her wake. He was right. Look at what has happened. Then, he told me of Ithaka. This beautiful island that is now our home. I had never heard of it before.” Penelope smiled. “I had no idea he was a king until he told me he sought a loyal woman for his queen. He asked me if I would consider him as my husband. Too shy to give him a direct reply, I told him the matter was in my father’s hands. The next I knew, my father had arranged a foot race, telling Odysseus he could only wed me if he was victorious. He won. And my father, realizing he might not see me again for some time, tried mightily to get Odysseus to settle near Sparta, but stubborn man that he is, he refused. Once, your son had claimed me as his own, he made ready to return to Ithaka. But my father refused to let me go so easily. He followed us in his chariot, begging me the entire way to stay, for us to stay. Odysseus bade me do as I wished. So, I pulled my himation over my head, placing my hand on his, and told him I could not be happy anywhere where he was not. And, Mother, so here I am.”
The queen and queen mother stopped for a moment, watching the water sparkle and blink in the bright light of Apollo with the waves gently reaching up the sand staining the hems of their gowns dark. Anticlea placed her arm around Penelope’s shoulder, pulling her close. “If the gods could have sent me a better daughter, I do not know where they would have found her.”
“If only they would send my Odysseus, our Odysseus, back to us soon.”
“Yes, if only,” Anticlea said sorrowfully. “Before I am dead.”
“Silence your words, Mother. Best not tempt the immortals.”
“They closed their ears to me long ago. We should get back to the hall. There is much work left to do.”
TWENTY NINE
MYCENAE
1246 BCE
Oil lamps, burning brightly in distant corners of the hall, cast dancing shadows along the walls and across the floor. From her magisterial chair at top of the great hall, Clytemnestra unrolled the papyrus and scanned the recently delivered message from Sparta. Then, with great fury, she hurled the unwelcomed words across the cavernous chamber. The scroll clattered against the tile. “I cannot believe Tyndareus persists with this marriage arrangement.” She stood abruptly from her chair and descended from the raised dais to pace the floor of the hall. “I will not allow it. The very thought of my son marrying the whore’s daughter sours my stomach.”
Aegisthus remained seated on a couch as the queen raged. “What will you do?”
She turned awkwardly, her gown spilling around her bare feet. “I will go to Sparta myself and see if I can persuade him otherwise.”
“In your condition?”
The queen’s hands smoothed over her belly. “Perhaps, you are right. I should be prudent where Tyndareus is concerned. After the child is born, then.”
Aegisthus cautiously approached his lover. “Your father has the patriarch’s right, and it will be hard to dissuade him otherwise.”
“I am no idiot. Of course I know. But I must try. Orestes approaches manhood, and soon enough that whore’s child will bleed as a woman. And if Agamemnon should return before I can dissuade my father, I will lose all say in the matter.” Clytemnestra abruptly ta
cked the conversation onto a new course. “The midwife informed me she expects the child will arrive before the next moon.”
“Is it that soon?” Aegisthus moved toward her, reaching out a comforting hand on her arm. “I know very little of the travails of women.”
“Few men do,” she said tersely, pulling away from his touch. “In the meantime, I will send a response.”
“What will you say?”
“Nothing regarding the marriage. Simple pleasantries. And word that I will arrive to visit my mother when my illness has past.”
“Is that what you call our child? An illness?” Aegisthus asked.
The queen leveled her eyes at her lover, her face a mask of impassive calm. “My child is a divine blessing. That is all anyone should know. For now.”
While the moon climbed high into the inky dark of night, Clytemnestra rolled to her side as the familiar pain of labor began pulling the child to the light. The midwife informed her that a fifth child would likely come swiftly and to send for her as soon as the pains were upon her. But now that the time had come, she lay still and alone, not wishing anyone to share these first moments. Memories of her lost children pushed through the growing agony tugging on her bones and insides. Tears fell for the infant son she’d borne for Tantalus and for her glorious daughter, Iphigenia. I am sorry to bear you into a house of pain and sorrow. I have no joy to offer you. She wondered silently if she should call for Neola, but a sudden, deep pain sliced through her, stealing her breath and words. She whispered the name of the goddess, “Eleithyia.”
A cool breeze from the open balcony swirled across the room. Clytemnestra turned over with great difficulty, her eyes growing wide, as she watched a shimmering moonbeam spill a circle of light on the marble floor. Dusty particles of light arranged themselves into the tall, elegant form of a woman shrouded in shimmering silver and bronze. Stars flashed at her feet and along the hem of her gown trailing behind her. “Daughter, we meet once again.”
“I had hoped,” Clytemnestra said, her voice holding no expectation for joy.
“You were right to call me to your aide. Ever is my eye upon you. It was I who caused your womb to quicken with this life.”
“I had wondered how—” A sharp pain wrapped around her hips, shooting down both legs.
The goddess approached her, laying a cool, soothing hand on the mound of Clytemnestra’s belly. “Sit up, daughter. Ease your body to the bed’s edge.” The queen did as commanded and the goddess knelt before her. “Your son is almost here, my daughter.”
“My son?”
The goddess smiled serenely. “Yes. Now, bear down with all your might.”
The queen gathered all her strength and pushed until her legs shook. She heard the soft splash of birthing water on the floor. “He comes,” she whispered in a ragged voice. “He comes.”
Eleithyia caught the slippery newborn with her deft hands. Clytemnestra dared a glance down to see the baby lying in the goddess’ hands, unmoving with skin was as blue as the sea. The queen cried out for the first time, as her old grief ripped through the veil of calm. “What is wrong? What has happened?”
The goddess did not speak, but placed her mouth over the infant’s, breathing into the small, lifeless form. Within moments the tiny babe cried out and the cold blue of his skin faded into a rosy paleness. Eleithyia pulled a sharp blade from a fold of her shimmering gown and cut the life cord above the child’s navel. “Here is your son, daughter.”
“Gratitude.” The queen cooed quietly down into the newborn’s face. “He is perfect.”
“Your children rarely bring you lasting joy. Hold tight to it while you can.”
“You gave me such a warning when Iphigenia was born. Again, you steal my joy with words.”
The goddess bent to kiss Clytemnestra on the brow. “You are a mortal, daughter. Your strength is only revealed to you when you suffer. Happiness is fleeting when you have nothing in this world to lose.” She turned toward the balcony, disappearing into a sparkling mist of light.
At that moment, Neola burst through the queen’s chamber door. She rushed to her lady’s side with half a dozen other women. “By all the gods of Olympus!”
“He is beautiful, is he not?” The queen smiled.
“But how did you … alone?”
“I was not alone, Neola. The goddess―”
Neola gasped, “Eleithyia?”
Clytemnestra held the tiny baby to her breast and his heart-shaped mouth latched easily to her nipple. “Yes, she has now delivered two of my children.” Her eyes darkened. “And again she gave warning.”
Neola reached for the infant. “My lady, let me bathe him properly so that you may rest.”
“Of course.” Clytemnestra grabbed one of the attendants by the elbow. “Send for my son.”
“Yes, my lady.” And she disappeared into the darkened hall. Within moments, she returned followed by a brooding Orestes.
The young prince, nearly a man now, towered over men twice his age. His brown hair swept across broad shoulders, catching the flickering light of the oil lamps, revealing the auburn gold of his father’s bloodline. Black eyes glittered like polished obsidian. The thin line of his lips revealed no joy or concern for his mother. Orestes stood at the foot of his mother’s bed as the women flitted about her like birds in a garden. “Why have you sent for me?”
Clytemnestra caught the slight tick of his jaw as he stood there staring angrily at her. “I thought you should meet your brother.”
“He is no brother of mine.” Orestes’ lip curled into a sneer. “He does not share my father’s blood.”
“You could not be more wrong on that account.”
The young prince leveled his gaze directly at his mother. “What do you mean?”
“Your grandfather’s blood flows through him just as it does through you.”
“Your words twist in riddles. How is that possible? Or even true?” Orestes looked from his mother to the sleeping child cradled in her arms. “How?”
The queen reached a hand out toward her eldest son, entreating him to hear her. “Will you not sit beside me?”
Orestes settled at the edge of the mattress just beyond her reach. “Have you chosen a name?”
His avoidance of her maternal affection was not lost on her. It is my fault he hates me. I have ignored him, kept him at arm’s length for years. He will not understand why … that I needed to protect my heart. “Aletes,” she whispered.
“Who is his father?” Orestes asked. He had never witnessed his mother with any man and half expected her to say that Zeus had flown from the heavens and planted his seed in her belly. He braced for the truth, if she would give it.
Sighing heavily, Clytemnestra adjusted the infant’s swaddling. How can I tell him the truth? He will only hate me more. Sooner or later, the entire kingdom must know the truth. “Aegisthus,” she finally said. “Aegisthus is the father.”
Orestes scoffed at the revelation. “Surely, you do not mean―”
“Yes, I do.”
“He is nobody. Unworthy of your station.”
“Not so unworthy as you may think. You do not know the truth of it.”
“There is no truth that will make what you have done honorable.”
“You do not understand what your father has done to me,” Clytemnestra said coldly.
Dormant rage rose through the snow of his calm, staining his cheeks crimson. “My entire life has been in the shadow of my sister’s death. My entire world has been shaped by her absence and your desire for vengeance against my own father! Had the gods not willed it so, it would not have happened. Iphigenia died because she must. We all must die. If her fate was to set the world on fire with war, then who are you, or father, or anyone to deny it?”
Clytemnestra cringed at her son’s words. She had no idea he harbored such vitriol for her, or the cavalier attitude toward Iphigenia. “Truly, your father’s cursed blood flows through your veins, overrunning mine.” As soon as the word
s left her lips, she realized that Aegisthus shared the same tainted bloodline. The gods cursed her twice over. Peace and joy would forever be just beyond her reach, as her son was now. “Aegisthus is your father’s half-brother.”
Orestes rose slowly from his mother’s bed, his disgust and disapproval glaring from his stoic eyes. “I wish you were not my mother. If I could remove your stain from my blood, I would.” He turned and left without further word.
His departure stung Clytemnestra more deeply than she cared to admit. The distance she’d cultivated to guard her heart had only deepened the divide. Now, holding another son in her arms, she realized her strategy had not protected her at all. Have I been wrong all these years? She thought of Leda’s coolness toward her after the abuse Zeus had inflicted. Quite suddenly, a wave of understanding for her mother flooded her being. As a young woman, she’d always thought her mother cold, calculating, and unaffected by love. She’d believed Leda had no warmth, no comfort. But she’d been wrong, she knew now, very wrong.
The wall of indifference had been built, not out an inability to love, but out of necessity to survive life among the gods’ cruelties. Only profound pain and suffering could rend a mother from her children. Clytemnestra’s eyes stung with sadness that she had inadvertently inflicted that same pain on her own children, not because she held no love and affection in her heart for them, but because she loved them more than the very breath she took. The distance between herself and her children had seemed necessary, because life had taken more from her than she could bear. Each day she struggled to endure, fearing one more pain could tip the balance between her thin desire for life or her fight against the darkness calling her to death.
The infant in her arm began to bawl. She undid her gown, her warm breast pressing against the tiny cheek. “There, Aletes. I am here.” Clytemnestra gently brushed his wrinkled forehead with her fingers. “I am here.” He hungrily latched on to her nipple and quieted into slumber. “It will be different for you,” the queen whispered. “I promise.”
Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2) Page 20