A Spartan's Sorrow: The epic tale of ancient Greece's most formidable Queen (The Grecian Women Series)

by Hannah Lynn

  A Spartan’s Sorrow

  Hannah Lynn

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  A Spartan’s Sorrow

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  Contents

  Foreword

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part II

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part III

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Appendix

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  Also by Hannah Lynn

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  This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, alive or dead, events or locals is entirely coincidental unless referring to commonly recognised mythological figures.

  Text copyright © 2021 Hannah Lynn

  First published 2021

  ISBN: 9798721713392

  Imprint: Independently published

  Edited by Carol Worwood

  Cover design by Miblart Designs

  Map by Adrian Obezerra

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book should be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author.

  For great women everywhere.

  Foreword

  The stories of Ancient Greece are, at times, as complicated as the intricate patterns of Arachne’s webs. So many threads, so many paths. From a distance, the weaving seems strong and secure and yet, when you look closer, you see that the fibres are so twisted and damaged, that it is hard to tell where one ends and the next glistening strand begins. Tugging at it doesn’t help, either. This simply causes more fractures. More confusion. The only real choice left to you, is to choose one thread and cling to it. Clutch at that fibre, hold it close and have faith that the path you are taking is one that will lead you all the way through the heart of the web and out the other side.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Sweat weaved down Agamemnon’s spine as he stumbled up the rocky path. The journey had taken him longer than he had expected. There were no clouds to lessen the heat or diminish the glare of the sun, and the dry earth was crumbling beneath his feet, forcing him to keep making detours. More than once, he had struggled to maintain his footing and had been forced to crawl on hands and knees in the dust amongst the scuttling insects, until the terrain had become safer. Even the King of Kings was no match for ground like this.

  Before leaving Aulis to make the journey, he had told his men that he would return in the early afternoon. Now he wondered if he would even make it back to them by nightfall. Not that it mattered. Without the guidance of the seer, their ships would be going nowhere and the mighty armada he had amassed would remain in Aulis harbour, far from the shores of Troy.

  For weeks, his fleet had remained as still as paper boats on a glass pond, with not a hint of the wind they needed to take them across the Aegean Sea, to fight for Helen’s return to his brother, Menelaus. Sacrifices had been offered in the names of each of the gods: goats, sheep and enough fish to feed an entire village. But nothing seemed to satisfy them. And so, he and his fleet waited—hundreds of ships—like stagnant algae.

  Stumbling again, Agamemnon cursed himself and the situation he was in. Not only was he brother to Menelaus but their wives, Clytemnestra and Helen, were sisters. His men should have been the first to land on the sands of Troy to wrest Helen from the clutches of the brazen upstart Paris. And yet, unless he could get back in the gods’ good favour, they would be going nowhere. As such, this infuriating trek through parched lands was unavoidable. It was the only route to get to the seer, Calchas.

  The old man was the greatest prophet in Greece, if not the world, and so it was no wonder that he kept himself to himself. Gone were the days when he would mingle with the common folk, or even take a position at a temple, nearer the towns. A man with his gifts deserved a certain level of privacy, although that didn’t make the arduous journey any more agreeable. Every few steps, the King slipped on the brittle earth, the hardened skin on his feet already cracked and bleeding. Ideally, he would have brought slaves along, to carry food and water, and possibly even him. But he had been a king for long enough to know that there were some people you could impress with such displays of wealth and power and others whom you could not, and Calchas was most definitely one of the latter.

  At last a small house came into view on the edge of a hill. A patch of grass shone slightly greener there, and the white walls looked clean and bright, as if they had been freshly painted that summer. As he took a moment’s respite, he could have sworn he smelt the aroma of freshly baked bread drifting across to him on a warm breeze. Whether it was real or not didn’t matter as, with a new found energy, he hastened to the abode.

  Filthy, tired and with his eyes stinging from the dust, he found the seer cross legged beneath a fig tree, gazing upwards towards a small flock of birds that weaved in the sky above him. The garden was simple, with fruit overburdening many of the trees, and Agamemnon was tempted to help himself to a peach or a plum to slake his thirst, but resisted the urge and moved towards the seer. Calchas’ robe was draped over his arm and trailed in the dirt by his feet. Agamemnon was gratified that he had not brought his slaves with him in the end. There would be no standing on ceremony here. No formal vestments or altars bearing offerings. Not even any incense burning. Just a simple man, gifted by the gods to read the signs they gave him.

  “Greetings, great Calchas.” He stepped forward, casting the old man in his shadow. Moving a little to the side he cleared his throat. “Forgive the disturbance.”

  “It is not a distur
bance.” His eyes remained skywards as he spoke. “I know why you have come. You wish to learn why the winds will not take you to Troy—which god you have affronted and how you can repent.”

  It was a skill that was both impressive and irritating to the King. Given that the seer already knew of his need, couldn’t he have sent word of what they must to do straight to Aulis? The old man had to leave this hovel of his at some point, to replenish his stores of oil and grain, if nothing else. He could easily have relayed the information then. Perhaps the gods wished that he should suffer a little first. That would be likely. Given how the insects had beset him every step of the way, he considered that sacrifice already sufficiently well met. Now all he needed to know was what type of beast he should slay, and on whose altar he should lay it.

  “You are a hunter, are you not?” For the first time, Calchas’ eyes left the sky and turned to Agamemnon. “You hunt all kinds of creatures.”

  “I am a king,” he answered. “All monarchs should be able to subdue the rest of the animal kingdom. But yes, I am better than the average man with a bow and arrow.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Well at least that is what those who wish to get in my good graces tell me.” He smiled wryly to himself. He was playing the part well. Showing a level of humility. The fact was, he would challenge any man on his ship to beat him in a hunt, Achilles included. Yes, the warrior was strong and fearless, but still no match for him. There was not an animal on land that he could not track and kill, if he wanted. Before they had attempted to set sail, he had enjoyed one last hunt, through the forest of Aulis. There he had taken down a deer that had been so quick, so swift, he doubted even Artemis herself could have felled it. A fact he’d told his hunting party with pride.

  “Do you recall the stag you killed?” The seer’s words broke into his thoughts as if he were reading them. “That beast was sacred to the Goddess Artemis.”

  The words struck like ice and the heat of the day was replaced by a bitter chill that spread the length of Agamemnon’s spine.

  “Surely not?” he whispered. But the old man’s eyes said it all. For the first time in decades, fear bloomed in the King’s chest. “It was a mistake. I did not know.”

  “I do not doubt it.”

  “Then what should I do?” he asked, trying to hide the quiver in his voice, as he broke out into a cold sweat. If he did not appease the Goddess, the likelihood was that his ships would never sail at all. But the punishment for killing a sacred beast would not be insubstantial.

  “A feast? A sacrifice?” he offered. “I can do both. I will kill a hundred beasts, five hundred, in her name. Tell me, what must I do? How do I seek her forgiveness?”

  Without a word, the old man’s gaze returned to the sky. The smallest of breezes sent a ripple through his beard, as dozens of birds took to the air once more, circling up and around towards the sun. A bitter taste burned in Agamemnon’s throat as he waited to hear how much of his wealth he would have to forfeit. Calchas’ gaze came back to him.

  “You are a man of the gods, Agamemnon. The King of Kings, no less.”

  “Tell me, what is required?”

  “You have faced difficult situations before, such as reclaiming your father’s crown from your treacherous uncle.”

  “I know this. I know what I have done.” His throat had grown so dry he could barely swallow. Seers should talk about the future, he thought, not drag up the past. “What is it I must do?”

  The old man’s eyes went back to the sky, where a single bird was hovering just a little way off in the distance. Around it, larger birds began to swoop and circle.

  “She seeks only a single sacrifice,” he said. “One single death on her altar in the Temple of Aulis.”

  Agamemnon nodded rapidly. “Yes, whatever the Goddess wishes. I will return now. I will do it this very evening.”

  A single death. That was straightforward enough. He just needed to know the beast. He bowed his head in respect to the seer. But when he lifted it again, the old man caught his hand.

  “It is no animal she requires,” he said, with a voice that could have been a thousand years old. “It is a child. Your fairest daughter, Iphigenia.”

  Chapter 2

  The evening light lingered on the courtyard in soft hues of tangerine and blushing pink. It was the largest in a palace full of open spaces, and had always been a favourite of Clytemnestra’s. Her eldest and youngest, Iphigenia and Orestes, were sitting on a mound of cushions they had placed beneath a lime tree, feeding rabbits that hopped around their feet. Yesterday, it had been frogs from the pond, tomorrow it could be goats or chicks or whatever else they could get their hands on. Two dogs lay nearby, chewing on scraps of food that the children had given them. Sometimes she thought they would rather live on a farm, surrounded by animals, than in the palace of the great citadel of Mycenae, but that would never be. She would keep them here, by her side, for as long as was humanly possible.

  The children’s laughter floated on the breeze as dulcet as any tune she had ever heard. Breathing in the warm air, she leaned back in her seat and watched them play. Queen of Mycenae, a grand title but one that came with more shackles than anyone could have imagined. It was a far cry from her life in Sparta as a warrior princess—placid, mundane even. Or as mundane as was possible, when a constant veil of fear overshadowed your every move. Since her marriage to Agamemnon, her life had been divided. The public face and the private.

  In private she cowered from her husband, flinching at the sight of him, knowing she had to obey his every command. She would stifle her cries, cover her bruises, and try to act as if the Clytemnestra her subjects saw was the real one. Her public face was the Queen Consort who smiled at every occasion, and dressed exquisitely in elaborate costumes that would have been an anathema in her old life in Sparta.

  Even after all these years, she would find her thoughts drifting back to her homeland; to the clang of metal on metal that would accompany the evening cicada chorus, the smell of sweat ripe in the air. She remembered the fights she had won as a young girl growing up when, at only fourteen, her swordsmanship had been good enough to defeat half the boys her age, if not more. They had been so proud of her. Her father, her family—and Tantalus. With a heavy sadness, she recalled two sets of brown eyes she could lose herself in. She had been so happy. And then he had come.

  “Orestes, you are stroking him too hard. You need to be more careful. Watch. Like this. That’s better.” Iphigenia took her little brother’s hand and guided it gently across the rabbit’s back. At two years old, Orestes was already showing himself to be far more like his elder sisters Iphigenia and Chrysothemis, than Electra. His patience, his sensitivity and his thoughtfulness were a far cry from Clytemnestra’s youngest daughter, who approached every task as a potential battle and had done so practically since birth. The Queen had already found herself embroiled in more disputes with eight-year-old Electra than she had ever done with Iphigenia, who was seven years her senior. Electra’s attitude was attack first, possibly apologise later, but only if there was no alternative. Iphigenia and Chrysothemis were the opposite. Still, she worried about them all in their own way and they were what made her life in Mycenae worth living. They were the one thing that stopped her falling down the dark abyss that Agamemnon had created with his spear, all those years ago. She treasured each and every one of them, no matter what squabbles occurred.

  Across the courtyard, Electra had joined her siblings, and was attempting to feed the rabbits the long stem of a dandelion, only each step she took towards them sent them scurrying under the bushes.

  “You need patience, Electra,” she said, rising from her seat and approaching her children. “Sit down. They will not come to you if you charge at them.”

  “I am not charging at them. I am trying to feed them. What kind of animals run away when you give them food? It will be their fault if they starve.”

  Clytemnestra smiled to herself. If any of her children belonged in Sp
arta, it was Electra.

  “Here, sit with me,” Iphigenia patted the cushion on the ground next to her. “This one is the tamest. He will let you feed him.”

  Electra huffed grudgingly as she dropped to the ground, her frown lifting slightly as the rabbit on her sister’s lap craned out its neck to nibble the weed from her hand. When the creature finally moved across to her to finish it, Iphigenia picked up her lyre and began to play a tune. As the notes sang out, Clytemnestra closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift away. In moments like this, with her children gathered around her, she felt as though the joy of what she had might just outweigh all the terror she had suffered, and she would try to focus on what he had given her, not what he had taken away. Although she could never forget that. Nor forgive.

  Time passed. She remained there, lost in the sounds of the strings and the young ones’ chatter until, when the music finally stopped, she opened her eyes to find Orestes’ arms bundled with three small balls of fur.