by Hannah Lynn
“Rabbits tired. Rabbits sleep in my bed?”
“Oh, Orestes.”
“Please?”
This time she let her laughter break free. As the future king, he was the one she worried most about. His gentle nature would be remarkable enough in a girl, but to think of her son ruling the entire kingdom with such a soft heart, was enough to make her sick with worry. His kindness could be taken advantage of. He could end up succumbing to threats or being manipulated by false friendships. Or, worse still, his heart would become hardened, until that compassion had been bled from him altogether. Hopefully, with her guidance together with Agamemnon’s conduct as an example of how not to behave, he would find a path somewhere between the two extremes.
“Mother?” He spoke again, having still not received an answer to his question. “Rabbits sleep in my bed?”
“What do you think your father would say to that?” she replied with a broad smile.
“He is not here,” Iphigenia replied matter-of-factly. “You are the one who will have to say ‘no’ to him on this matter. But I do not mind. We can have the rabbits in our chamber for the night.”
“I mind,” Electra responded.
“Well I do not object at all,” said Chrysothemis, as she lifted her head from her needlework and weighed in on the subject. “That means it is three against one.”
“I suppose that means you get your way, Orestes,” Clytemnestra grinned.
Despite the majority verdict, it proved far more challenging than any of them had anticipated to ferry the young rabbits from their home in the courtyard to the children’s chamber. The palace extended the length of the citadel and while they had been mostly content to be picked up and carried short distances, the creatures managed to squirm their way free from their hands and make a bid for freedom several times, bounding along the marble corridors. After many screams of delight—and several more of disappointment—Clytemnestra, with the help of Iphigenia and Chrysothemis, managed to move a half dozen of the small creatures to their chamber. While Electra had relented and attempted to help, it quickly became apparent that her stomping feet and yells of frustration were more of a hindrance to their cause, so she instead went to the kitchen, to fetch them more food.
By the time they were all in bed, nightfall was well and truly upon them. The sound of dogs barking drifted through the open windows. Clytemnestra moved from one child to the next, brushing aside their hair and kissing them gently on the forehead, as she bade them goodnight. When she reached Iphigenia, her daughter sat up.
“Have you any news of father?” she asked. “I heard Orrin talking to one of the guards earlier. He said that there are still no winds. That the ships still cannot move.”
“You do not need to worry about such things,” Clytemnestra responded. Stroking her daughter’s hair and tucking the loose strands behind her ears, she made a note to herself to talk to her Chief of Guards about discretion. Such conversations should not be held within hearing distance of her children. “The gods will bring your aunt and your father home.”
“But ten years. That is what the guard said—that there is a prophecy that the war will last for ten years. Do you think it is true? Orestes would be twelve by the time he sees Father again if that is to be believed.”
Still stroking her hair, she fixed her gaze on her eldest daughter. To an outsider, Electra was the most beautiful of her children, stunning in fact. Striking and bold. But her looks were growing more severe with age, whereas Iphigenia, still only fifteen, had a fairness she had never encountered before. She would never dare utter the words out loud but she wondered if, one day, she would rival even Helen for beauty. The thought tore into her like a knife. Beauty—the most tainted gift there was. Being beautiful didn’t stop a man’s hands from striking you. Nor did it stop his eyes—and the rest of him—wandering when he grew tired of the same person in his bed at night. The thought of her daughters experiencing even a fraction of what she had endured, made her dizzy with fear. Before Agamemnon returned from the war, she would find Iphigenia a place in one of the Temples of Artemis. That way, she would be safe. Or as safe as any woman ever could be in this unfair world.
“A thousand rumours wash onto these shores every day,” she replied to her daughter’s question. “If we were to believe each of them, we would never leave the palace.”
“But these are not rumours, Mother. They are prophecies. Prophecies from the gods. Prophecies from a seer are as true as the word of Zeus.”
“Did you hear the words from the seer? Or better still, from Zeus himself?”
Her daughter pressed her lips together in thought.
“Let us talk no more of this.” She smoothed down the blanket of a girl already old enough to have children of her own. “Your father will do everything right by the gods. You know this. No doubt I will have a messenger with me by morning, telling me they are already halfway to Troy. Now sleep. Tomorrow, you are going to have to help your brother clean up the mess these rabbits are making.”
A motherly pride glimmered in her eyes as Iphigenia laid her head down on her pillow.
“Good night, Mother,” she said.
“Good night, my love.”
With the children in bed, Clytemnestra weaved her way back through the corridors and out onto the veranda, where a large carafe of wine had been placed on a table beside her seat. Next to it was a platter of dates and figs. During the day, she favoured the courtyards, where a cool breeze would drift across the marble flooring but, at times like this on her own, she preferred to sit on the veranda, on the edge of the fortress. Here she would gaze out over the rolling hills, and remember.
Sometimes, if she could rouse them before sunrise, she would bring the children here too. When they were babies she would hold them to her breast and feed them as she drank in the view. With no servants or nursemaid in attendance, she could mother them as she wished. Unfortunately, although perhaps predictably, the older they grew, the less inclined they were to wake with her, particularly during the shorter days of the colder months. Apart from which, even as a small child, Electra had a penchant for danger, delighting in perching herself on the edge of the limestone wall. On more than one occasion she had feared for her daughter’s life. So now, they spent most of their family time in the courtyard together, where there was more than enough room for them to run around, without her needing to worry about the perils that could befall them.
Ignoring the food, she poured herself a small cup of wine, which she cut with water, and sat back in the seat with a sigh. Ten years. She had heard the rumours of the prophecy too, and from a far more reliable source than gossiping guards. Could it really be possible? Was she really to govern Mycenae single handed for that long?
The thought was appealing. Raised as the daughter of a king, she had been accustomed to the duties of a ruler from a small child. There was even a time when she had been a queen herself. Not just an ornamental one, but a true monarch, with the promise of real power. But those days had been short lived and she knew better than to dwell on what could have been. Still, now she was to have a second chance. Who was to say Mycenae could not thrive without Agamemnon’s hot temper? Of course, that and his ruthlessness were what had gained him respect. Without them, he could never have overthrown his uncle and cousin to take back the throne. He was powerful and brutal. And if, by chance or the hand of the gods, he did not return from the war in Troy, any tears she shed would be purely for show.
She was busy thinking about new ways to while away her evening hours with her husband gone—her weaving and domestic skills remained feeble, despite all the time she had spent on them—when her attention was drawn to a man waiting by the balustrade.
“Orrin,” she said, beckoning him closer. “Is something wrong?”
According to the history of the citadel, he had once been one of its fiercest warriors but now his muscles had weakened with age, and the wounds he received took longer and longer to heal. Agamemnon had placed him in charge of
guarding his family in his absence, rather than taking him to Troy. She knew, as such, his first loyalty lay with Orestes and yet, unlike many of the men of the citadel, he had always shown her a level of respect, which she in turn reciprocated. Ultimately, his true loyalty was to Mycenae. To its citizens and its citadel. While she would never say so out loud, she always got the impression that he did not really care who sat on the throne, as long as the people were cared for.
“There is a messenger, My Queen. He has word from the King. He will speak only to you.”
She gulped down the remainder of her wine.
“Send him in. Send him to me now.”
Without the need of further instruction, he disappeared back into the corridor. In just a few minutes he returned, accompanied by a man who looked as though he had travelled non-stop for several days. His coat was covered in dust and the skin on his lips was dry and flaking, while his eyes were bloodshot, as if he had gone the longest while without any rest.
“Come in. Come in.” She motioned him forward, while filling a cup with water. “Drink, please. And take a seat. Then tell me what news you have of my husband. Have the winds picked up at last and sent him on his way?” Or have the seas toppled his ship once and for all, she silently hoped.
She extended the cup. He hesitated, before accepting and swiftly emptying the contents. The cold water brought some colour back to his cheeks and, when he placed the empty vessel down, she filled it halfway with wine.
“There are no winds to sail out of Aulis,” he said, “which is why I had to come to you overland.”
“But did he meet with Calchas?” she questioned. “Did he find the seer?”
“He did, My Queen. He learned that it is the Goddess Artemis who has been wronged.”
A cool breeze chilled her. “How?”
“I am afraid that is not of my knowledge. The King told me, however, that the Goddess has decreed a blessed union will appease her and return the winds to the sea.”
“A union?” Confusion twisted her brow. Angered gods wanted sacrifices and repentance, not blessed unions. Then again, her gripe was likely with one of the crew members and not Agamemnon himself. Perhaps she wished to repay him for the inconvenience he had suffered.
“It is your daughter, Iphigenia,” he said. “You are to send her to Aulis.”
“Send her to Aulis?”
The messenger’s eyes finally lit up and a look of awe crossed his face. “At Aulis your daughter is to be married,” he said, “to the great warrior, Achilles.”
Chapter 3
Over food and more wine, the messenger told her all he knew. They were to leave as soon as possible. Iphigenia was to be dressed in the saffron robes of Artemis and a great feast would be held in her name when they reached Aulis, after which the wedding to Achilles would take place in the temple. Then, assuming the Goddess had been appeased enough to return the winds, Iphigenia would travel to Troy with Achilles, as his wife. There she would stay, in the safety of the camps, until the war was over. Where she would live afterwards was not a matter that had been discussed.
“Thank you. And thank you for your journey,” Clytemnestra said, standing up. “I shall pack our things now. And I will wake the children when I am done. We will leave at first light.”
A shadow crossed his face. “I mean no disrespect, My Queen, but the King said that I was to bring Iphigenia to Aulis on her own. He specifically said that.”
“Surely not? A wedding is a celebration for the whole family. He cannot think I would allow my eldest daughter to be given to a man without my presence? I am her mother.”
“I am merely relaying what I was told,” he said. “That your daughter Iphigenia is to travel alone.”
Lowering herself back down to her seat, she thought through the quandary. A marriage to Achilles would be no small event. For her not to be there, would only add fuel to the rumours that Agamemnon was tired of his wife and was looking for someone new. Someone younger. Perhaps he had already chosen that person to accompany him to the feast. Yes, that would be it. The thought caused her face to flush with anger. This was her eldest daughter’s wedding. She was to be handed over to a man she had never even met. Agamemnon couldn’t possibly think that this would happen without her. Damn him and his whore-mongering.
“The children,” she said to the messenger, eventually. “That is what he must have meant. Iphigenia is not to travel to Aulis with her siblings. Orestes is far too young and the voyage will not be easy. No doubt he wants to save them the discomfort of such a journey.” One she knew her other two daughters would gladly endure. While only twelve, Chrysothemis had mentioned the desire to marry a war hero more than once. And Electra just hated missing out on anything. But it made sense, leaving them behind. Taking Orestes, the future king, out on the open sea when Greece was already at war with Troy would be an unnecessary risk. But she would be going, whether he liked it or not.
“It will just be myself that accompanies Iphigenia then,” she continued. “I will go with her. The rest of the children will stay here, in the safety of the citadel.”
The messenger nodded but looked somewhat uneasy at her response. “Of course, My Queen. I will ensure the captain knows that you will be joining us. We will leave for Aulis at daybreak.”
They had, as she had promised, been ready to leave first thing. The small party left by horse from the citadel in the grey dawn, the animals picking their way over the rocky terrain that led towards the coast.
She delayed telling Iphigenia where they were going and why, until they had boarded the ship. The young woman responded with nothing more than a nod. Not until the port had faded into the distance, did she finally begin to question her mother.
“What do you know of him?” she asked. “Will Achilles make a good husband?”
“I know little more than you I suspect, my love,” Clytemnestra answered as truthfully as she could. “Little more than the heroes’ tales that are told across all of Greece. But these do seem to be favourable. As does this union. You are a child of Artemis; of that I am certain. You seem to see the world through her eyes. I do not believe she would have requested these nuptials had she not believed it would be a good match.”
Silence fell on them then, as they both gazed out to sea, where white-crested waves broke on the hull of their ship. Anticipation rippled through Clytemnestra but it was Iphigenia who spoke once again.
“The stories say that he is handsome, do they not?”
“They do.”
“But being handsome or strong does not mean he will make a good husband, does it?”
“It does not, no.” She wrapped her arms around her daughter and squeezed as tightly as she could. How she had borne such a wise child was beyond her. And to be so astute at such a tender age. Her heart ached with the thought of their separation, and she let the embrace linger on a little longer still.
“I hear tell that he is kind, too.” She continued positively. “That he is generous to those around him and that he does not seek conflict, although his reputation means that it may well come and find him. Remember, it is not just the Goddess who believes this marriage is well matched, your father knows him too. He would not agree to this, if he thought it would put you in harm’s way.”
“Even if it helps with the war?”
Stepping back, she placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. There were so much she would like to tell her. So many things she wanted her to know before she was gone. Her chest swelled with love for this perfect, young woman.
“Your father is a king, and it is his job to protect Mycenae at all costs. But he is your father first, which means it is his job to safeguard you, too. That is his duty to all of you children. He will be there with you, in Troy, and will never let anything happen to you. You have my word.”
Clytemnestra avoided talking of Agamemnon whenever possible, for the pain that rose in her chest at the mere mention of him. But Iphigenia required comfort, and it was her duty as her mother to re
assure her.
“Do you think I will have children?” Iphigenia asked after a pause.
“I very much hope so,” she replied. “Because that is the only way you will understand how much I love you.”
“I think I already know that.”
“Trust me, my child, you do not.”
As the day wore on, they whiled away the hours reminiscing, not knowing when they would next be able to do so.
“I still think about that robe you made for Father,” Iphigenia said, recalling an amusing incident. “I still do not know how on earth you managed that.”
Clytemnestra did not need reminding of the garment. Swordsmanship had come as naturally to her as to any child of Sparta. Needlework had not.
“That was deliberate. I just wished to make you all laugh,” she said, shrugging off the comment with a grin.
“No, you did not. You sewed the neck shut! How could anyone do that? Do you remember how Electra ran around the house, wearing the thing over her head?”
“Of course. Do you know how many vases she broke that day? I am only amazed she did not break her neck too!” Her daughter’s fond smile as she recollected the incident brought tears to her eyes.
“I made sure she was safe. Do you not recall? I followed her everywhere, catching her every time she stumbled.”
“That is right. I remember now,” she said with tears brimming. She had forgotten how they had all laughed until their sides hurt that day. Orestes had been just a baby, crawling around them, but even he had been swept up in the euphoria of it all. Such a wonderful memory. Children at their purest, finding joy in simply being with one another. That and their mother’s disastrous sewing.
“Do you still have it?” Iphigenia asked.
“I think so. Maybe I should dig it out. See if Electra would wear it for us again.”