by Tim Hawken
Almost a decade before, her husband, Agamemnon, had left for war. He was Commander of the mighty Greek armies and King of Argos. His power was only matched by his ruthlessness in battle. Before he had sailed away with the legions, he had committed a crime that no mother could forgive. To make the winds blow true and take their warships to Troy, Agamemnon had offered a sacrifice to the gods: their virgin daughter, Iphigenia. While the blood of that sweet girl had congealed on the sands of Aulis, the brute had left to spill even more innocent life.
In the years that followed, Clytemnestra was almost driven mad. The grief she felt at losing her precious one had tipped her toward the abyss of insanity. The only thing that held her together was the thought of revenge. Every day she had prayed that her husband would be safe. She wanted him unharmed, so she could be the one to slide the steel in his heart. Every waking moment was spent dreaming of this day of reckoning. In his absence she had managed their kingdom with a cold hand; she closed herself off from any new love; she had taken a partner to satisfy her sexual needs, but she never let any happiness into her heart. Even Clytemnestra’s remaining two children: her son Orestes and daughter Electra, became strangers. She never said it out loud, but every time she looked at them, they reminded her of that day. Both had their father’s eyes. Eventually she had sent them away, to be schooled in another city.
Now the day of reckoning had come. Agamemnon had returned, victorious. With great fanfare he had reclaimed his rightful throne next to his wife. He had greeted her as though nothing untoward had passed between them. Clytemnestra played her role while the wheels of vengeance turned behind her glassy eyes. She had stepped aside, as was her duty, and pretended that all was forgotten. As if she could ever forget. His silence on his deeds made her even more furious.
Agamemnon had not come back alone, either. As part of the spoils of war he had taken a concubine, Cassandra. She whispered in his ear constantly and shot smirking glances at the ice queen of Argos. The further insult provided a bitter righteousness to Clytemnestra’s thoughts.
A squeal of pleasure brought Clytemnestra out of her brooding. Her eyes narrowed in focus, as if she was only now seeing her prey properly. The axe felt like nothing in her hands. It was an extension of her body. Picking up the fisherman’s net that lay at her feet, she waited a few more pounding heartbeats. It was time.
Rushing out from behind the column, Clytemnestra let her instruments of death be her voice. Agamemnon let out a cry of surprise and the net was cast over them. In a splashing tangle the two naked lovers squirmed to free themselves, but it only served to ensnare them further. With a cold smile on her face, Clytemnestra brought the axe down. Again and again she chopped, not uttering a noise, except for the occasional grunt of exertion when blade struck bone and she had to wrench it out again. The act of murder was finished in seconds, but Clytemnestra continued to strike at their bodies like a crazed woodsman. Only when a finger floated to the surface did she pause in curiosity. It was her husband’s. A gold wedding band was still wedged on it. Bobbing in a sea of red was the severed stump of their original union. It was finally over.
*****
Clytemnestra sat on the throne next to her lover, the new King of Argos. Today was a day of audience, where the rulers listened to the people and helped resolve their disputes. A larger crowd than normal had gathered to see the royal couple who had married just weeks after the unexplained demise of Agamemnon. Rumors of how Clytemnestra had killed her former husband were rife in the palace, yet no one challenged her directly. The righteousness she had felt in her actions had quickly melted into sorrow. The murder had not brought her precious Iphigenia back; it had only made the painful memory rise afresh to the surface. She slumped in her seat now, lost in her thoughts, barely hearing what the people had to say.
The new King handled most of them with barely concealed indifference. One by one he resolved their petty problems and sent them on their way. It was only when he raised his voice in surprised anger that Clytemnestra lifted her head to see what the commotion was about. Her heart froze. It couldn’t be. Agamemnon stood before them with a sword is his hand and hate on his face. A hooded cloak lay crumbled on the ground next to him. Twenty soldiers stood in support at his back. How had this happened? From where had he appeared? He was dead.
The roar of confusion in Clytemnestra’s head was matched by the clamor at her side. Her lover was on his feet, yelling, gathering his own soldiers to his side.
“Your father is buried, Orestes. He passed away in his sleep. You have no claim to the throne. Your mother has married me!”
Orestes? The fog of disorientation cleared and Clytemnestra realized what was happening. This wasn’t her dead husband. It was her son. He was the exact image of his violent father the day he had gone to war. He had come to claim his birthright. He looked at her with familiar eyes and mouthed the words.
“Mother. Did you do what the people are saying? Did you slay our king? My father?”
The accusation, spoken with such venom, made her hackles rise. The indignity of all that had happened to her, boiled again to the surface. This man had no right to judge her decision. He might be her son, but he didn’t know her. He didn’t know anything. She had done what she had for his sister. She had revenged a girl child in a society that prized men over women. She couldn’t explain that Agamemnon deserved to die. How could she justify it to a world that automatically leant more weight to the father than the mother?
Clytemnestra stood in anger. She stepped down from her place on the throne to stalk into the middle of the stand off. Ripping the bodice of her dress, she exposed her chest to her son. The soldiers murmured at the insane display. She came to stand toe to toe with Orestes, who watched her actions in horror. Spitting with fury, her rage spewed out of her mouth.
“I sacrificed that murderer like the animal he was. If it’s a crime to kill a beast, then find me guilty. Stab me through the heart, as he did Iphigenia. But know that if you take my life, you will pay for your actions.”
Orestes’ face fell at her words. He looked into her eyes with regret, before his face turned hard.
“I cannot let a traitor to the throne live. Go to your grave in peace, Mother.”
“There is no such thing as peace!” she screamed, as the sword sliced into her breast.
Clytemnestra’s eyes faded to black as she watched her son’s soldiers swarm over the King’s guard. The smell of death filled her nostrils, as it had too many times before.
*****
The taste of metallic blood splattered onto Clytemnestra’s lips. An angelic woman bent over her, crying red tears that fell into her open mouth. The liquid fed strength and energy through her limbs. Clytemnestra sat up. The scene around her was a black and white battle, swirling in silent violence. She could see in slow motion the wispy form of Orestes making her lover kneel, before he sliced his head clean off. Dark floods of death spilled on the floor. It all happened in a noiseless, far off reality, that was still somehow all around her.
“Sister,” the angel at her side said, putting a hand on her face. “We are here to grant your wish.”
Two other angels came into view, dressed in robes of red. They had beautiful faces, but their eyes were bloody crimson, not just the irises: the entire eye. They smiled with pointed rows of white teeth, framed by black gums.
“You have been scorned by man, who has seen you as weak. You rose up to fight him and won, only to be pushed back down by none other than your own son. Do you want to show the world that a woman is worth more that?”
Clytemnestra turned back to the ethereal battle around her. Soldiers sliced at each other. They killed and stabbed and hurt. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. They were tearing each other apart. If she stepped in, maybe she could stop it. Women could do better than this.
“Take this dagger,” the angel said, holding out a silver blade. “Pierce man’s heart with it and drink his blood. With this power inside you, you will live forever and throw
down the patriarchy that enslaves us. Have your revenge.”
“Who are you?” Clytemnestra asked in a daze.
“Some call us The Erinyes. Others, The Furies. We are the answer to your prayers. You asked us with your soul to make right was has been wronged. We are here to answer that call.”
The angel pressed the hilt of the dagger into Clytemnestra’s palm. The metal was warm in her hands. As she gripped the handle tighter, it began to grow hot. The temperature flooded up her arms as she got to her feet. Her anger came back. Color returned to the world and everything spun into furious motion. Steel rang upon steel and cries of war echoed around the room.
Suddenly, Orestes was right before her. He turned his head and stopped. Surprise sparked in his eyes. Before he could react, Clytemnestra thrust the dagger in her hand through his chest: one hard, powerful stab. Blood trickled out of his mouth and down his neck. The noises of the battle stopped as the soldiers turned in wonder.
Clytemnestra watched the red life seep from her son. The only sound was him choking. His eyes looked up questioningly as he flailed to grasp at the dagger in his heart.
“Now drink,” a voice whispered in her ears. “Drink his blood and live again.”
But Clytemnestra could not drink. All she could do was watch, as she saw another one of her children die. In her haste and hate she had become just like the man she had despised so much. She had sacrificed her baby, and for what? Life? The power of violence and destruction?
This was not the way, she thought.
Looking up she saw the three Furies watching on, waiting for her to do her part. She shook her head at them and in one swift movement slid the dagger from Orestes body and plunged it into her own. The screaming rage of her angels was the last thing she heard before Hell.
The grinning face of Asmodeus stared down at Clytemnestra.
“I could use a woman like you,” he said. “Together we can work towards a better future.”
The deceit of his words should have been apparent, but, after so much darkness, Clytemnestra allowed herself to hope that the truth had finally arrived.
I was bowed on one knee as the scene dissipated. Clytemnestra was on the ground in front of me, crying in renewed grief. I placed my hand over her face to calm her.
“The truth has arrived, Clytemnestra,” I said. “It has just taken longer than you thought. You have known sorrow and anger like all of us. You have made bitter choices, but I can’t blame you for doing what you did. I know that you want to make amends.”
Her crying quieted to a low sobbing. The others watched in silence. Tearing my eyes from this powerful woman, I looked up to the other great females in my life. Mary and Charlotte both stood unwavering.
“Both of you will come with us to The Furies,” I said. “I think more than one man could be unwise. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” they all said, as one.
FIFTEEN
MARY, CHARLOTTE AND CLYTEMNESTRA stood with me at the mouth of a narrow black cave. Teeth of rock speared up in front of us, making the entry tight and menacing. A howling of souls blew up from inside. I could feel the haunting breeze on my face. It wasn’t hot like the rest of Hell’s air. It was cool and damp. The sound, which came up with the wind, was like the terrible wailing of someone who had lost everything. I knew the sound well. It had issued from my lips when Asmodeus had first torn Charlotte away from me. The memory sent shivers down my spine. I reached out to feel my wife’s arm, just to make sure she was still there.
“This is it,” Clytemnestra said. “The Necropolis has been a secret refuge for the females of Hell since time began. Those too afraid to live on the surface come down here under the protection of The Furies. I’m not sure how they will react to your presence, Michael.”
“I’m not going to let any of you walk into possible danger without putting myself on the line as well,” I said. “Surely they will respect that.”
“We’ll see,” she said, stepping forward to squeeze into the cave.
Mary quickly moved in behind her, as bold as ever. Charlotte next. Finally, I pushed my way into the interior, sliding through feet first. My heels came down onto soft dirt. Using some elements of light, I illuminated the cave. We were all crowded into a small antechamber of black rock. Ahead was a head-high tunnel, burrowed down steeply into the earth. The walls of the tunnel glowed softly with a green light. Stepping toward the source of the glow, I could see it came from a fuzzy moss which covered the cave. It seemed to grow thicker and brighter further down. Without a word, Clytemnestra moved past me, into the passageway. With her in the lead, we marched in single file downward. There were no twists, no turns: just one long corridor heading directly down. The noise of melancholy cries echoed constantly around.
It wasn’t long before I saw where they were coming from. Every three feet were small shelves cut into the cave walls. Placed on each one was a severed human head. All of them were men. The blood from their necks seeped down the walls, covering the green moss, which cast its unearthly light. The blue lips of their mouths were all open, issuing forth the same horrid wail. Most of the men had soldier’s helmets on: some ancient, some new. Many had their eyes were sewn closed and their ears hacked off. Others were barely recognizable as heads at all.
“They’re a warning,” Clytemnestra called back over the noise. “Some fools have been lured by the thought of fresh female souls to rape down here. They never get far, though. The women in the Necropolis are fiercer than you think.”
I glanced at one of the faces as I went past. As if my look were a trigger, its dead eyes opened. Inside were bloody sockets, writhing with living veins. The sight made the breath catch in my throat. It reminded me of the eyeless face of the prophet Phineus, before I gave him his sight back.
“They’re alive,” I said, shocked, before I could stop myself.
Of course they were alive. Nothing truly died in Hell. Charlotte looked to where I was staring and gave a start. The man gazed at me and his cries turned into words.
“Help me; save yourself,” he said in a gurgling voice.
I swallowed my fear and moved on, pushing Charlotte along ahead of me. She pressed her hands over her ears. Mary was walking with her eyes trained forward. I didn’t blame them.
As we descended, the roof of the tunnel began to get higher. The ghastly sight of the heads became fewer and fewer until there were none at all. The horrible noise faded to eerie silence. The cool breeze still wafted up in our faces. It must have been blowing that awful sound in the opposite direction. The walls eventually splayed out wider and we were able to walk side by side. My thoughts turned to the others back on the surface. I had sent Germaine, Smithy and Marlowe up to Casa Diablo, to begin making preparations for the resurrection. They would also arrange the grounds for my coming public address. I had to placate the souls of Hell once again. At least this time I would have something real to say. We had a plan. Change was coming.
“It’s not long now,” Clytemnestra said. “When we emerge, we’re going to keep walking straight. This is a city in itself, but there are no cars like there are up top. The streets are cleared for walking only. We will head directly to The Mausoleum, in the centre of the city. It’s best we hurry and don’t talk with anyone.” She looked across to us, holding authority in her voice. “Michael, keep your head down. Mary, Charlotte, let’s all group around him, so he’s at least a little hidden. We don’t want to cause a stir before we have to.”
Mary turned her face to mine.
“Let’s hope that pretty hair of yours makes you fit in,” she smirked, trying to lighten the mood as always.
Her comment gave me an idea. Weaving fabric from the elements close to me, I manifested a wide, black scarf. I then wrapped it around my head, concealing my face from view.
Charlotte nodded in approval.
“Remind me to ask you for one in blue when this is finished,” she smiled. “Perhaps silk, though.”
If I had been able to poke my tongue ou
t at her I would have.
Before long, the tunnel gave way completely and opened out on a small ridge of rock. There was a pathway to the side, which meant we could amble down to ground level. For now, we paused with our feet at the rooftops, staring across the expanse that was crammed into a gigantic cave. I couldn’t see the end, but the sides were within the edge of my vision. Pieces of soiled wood, scraps of metal sheeting and carved rocks had been used to build an extensive slum city, which filled every last inch of space in the cave. I had no idea where they had scrounged any of this stuff from. Perhaps the women brought what they could when they fled here. The result was a mess of recycled materials stacked haphazardly to create small homes, piled over the top of one another, each pressing hard to maintain an illusion of personal space. Right out in the middle of the slum was a white building. It stood out like a gleaming palace amidst the squalor. I knew without being told that this was where we were heading: The Mausoleum.
“Welcome to the Necropolis,” Clytemnestra bared her razor teeth at us. “Keep your head down, and make sure you don’t step in anything.”
SIXTEEN
WE ENTERED THE NECROPOLIS without any greeting or ceremony. Nobody stopped to say hello or ask questions, but I could sense that many eyes were watching us. Women sat or stood along the edges of the streets, which could be better described as passageways. They were wide enough for two, possibly three people to walk side by side. The shacks of the slum rose up on either side, giving an oppressive feel of being closed in. The smell was intense. Human filth and sweat mixed with the tang of cooking spices. Makeshift awnings hung overhead in odd places, so that at times you had to duck your head to go under them. Fat, black wires sagged from building to building, buzzing with electricity.
My companions crushed against me, like bodyguards protecting a celebrity. We would have drawn attention, had not everyone in the street been forced to bunch up as they bustled passed each other. Every corner had some kind of hole-in-the-wall store that sold supplies. Food here. Clothing there. There was a hairdressing salon barely the size of a cupboard. And I had thought it was crowded in Hell City. The close quarters made for slow going. We picked our way through the throng. As we passed an obese hag, the sickly smell of perfume failed to mask the even sicklier smell of rotting flesh on her breath. I did my best to avoid eye contact with anyone, in case they somehow noticed something was amiss.