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

by Hannah Lynn

Indeed, a storm did come that night. Winds, loud enough to drown out even Clytemnestra’s weeping, battered the walls of the palace. Men and women raced around the building, sealing what doors and gateways they could. She did not help them. It was not a queen’s place to do so. Instead, she stood at her open window, challenging the gale. Sheets of rain sliced down, soaking her robe and hair.

  “What do I do?” she called out. “How do I face this again?”

  A gust of air blew in so brutally that it knocked her backwards onto the stone floor, snuffing out the lamps and plunging the room into total darkness. Panting against the pain, she forced herself back to her feet.

  “Please, please tell me what to do!”

  The bolt of lightning was so pure, so vivid, it was as if Zeus himself was speaking directly to her. And when the storm had passed and she woke the next morning her head was as clear as it had ever been. She knew exactly what she must do.

  Chapter 7

  Four years had passed since she had scooped up her daughter’s body from the altar in the Temple of Artemis, and the war continued to rage on. Four of the ten years foretold to them. While most of the women in Mycenae were longing for their husbands’ return, Clytemnestra accepted the absence of hers with gratitude as she ruled alone.

  Mycenae was thriving. She was thriving in her role as queen and guardian, commanding the Polis and politicians with a grace and wit that many had doubted possible. Each year, their faith in her grew. Throughout the trials of long, hot summers and bitter winters, she had shown frugality but not miserliness. Compassion but not weakness. One by one, she had earned the respect of even Agamemnon’s most loyal devotees. But however well she played her part and kept the wheels of Mycenae turning, her focus remained not on the kingdom, but on her children. Their health. Their happiness. Their safety.

  “You need to stand with your feet apart.” She moved to her daughter and adjusted her shoulders. “I have told you before, you must hold your balance better.”

  “I do not need to balance when I am weaving,” Chrysothemis whined, shifting her feet a fraction, in a vain attempt at making herself more stable. “Why are we still doing this? As soon as the war ends, I will be married. Besides, we have been practising this for years and no one has ever tried to hurt us.”

  “That is because we are never allowed to leave the palace,” Electra observed.

  Clytemnestra ignored the remark. The evening sun had been a little above the horizon as the family had gathered together for their evening sparring session. As was normally the case, she had brought them out onto her veranda. The orange-hued light glinted off the wheat that grew in the pastures below, and reflected off the marble that surrounded them. This was their regular routine, as set in stone as the rising of Helios.

  “Come, raise your elbows a fraction.” The Queen continued to guide Chrysothemis. “Hold the blade higher. That is it. Now strike at me.”

  Wielding the weapon with distaste, Chrysothemis dragged her feet along the ground from side to side, then tentatively thrust the dagger forward, only for Clytemnestra to knock it to the ground in one, swift motion.

  “You need a stronger grip,” she said.

  “It is the tightest I can manage.”

  “That is not true. You just need to keep working at it. It is already better than it was.”

  “How is it possible that you are still so bad at this?” Electra asked, looking up from where she sat, polishing the blade of a sword. “We have been doing this for four years now.”

  “How are you still so bad at weaving?” Chrysothemis sneered back, picking up her knife. “You have been doing that for even longer.”

  “Yes, but I am bad at weaving because I do not bother with it. Weaving is dull. Why anyone would wish to waste time on it is beyond me. You have actually practised this and you are still terrible.”

  “Well, I am sure your husband will appreciate your swordsmanship when you are stuck in his palace, looking after his babies all day every day. I do not understand why we keep doing this.”

  Clytemnestra opened her mouth to respond. She had dozens of reasons listed in her mind, all day-to-day dangers facing a woman in this world and all of which she had shared with her daughters many times. But something caught her eye again. For the last two rounds of their training, she had noticed a figure sitting on a rock in the distance. He seemed to be looking their way, yet had made no movement to leave the field and take the path towards the citadel. He’d no sheep or goats to tend, nor did he wear the normal garb of someone who roamed the hills.

  “You are still practising, so that I get the chance to laugh at you every day,” Electra continued to goad her sister.

  “Girls, please!” Clytemnestra drew her eyes away from the man, bringing the bickering to a halt. “That is enough. Now, Electra, it is your turn. And put that thing down. What have I told you? You need to be able to defend yourself at a moment’s notice. You will not always have a sword to hand. Where is that dagger I gave you?”

  Grudgingly, she dropped the sword, rose to her feet and pulled out the blade that was sheathed at her waist. The very same one her mother had bought her all those years ago. For a while, Clytemnestra had regretted the gift. The sight of it only brought back memories and caused her heart to yearn once more for Iphigenia. But the manner in which Electra, not easily pleased, cherished the weapon, was to her mind the way her daughter expressed her love, without using words.

  “Good, now your aim is to strike me. Do not worry about hurting me. No need to hold back.”

  The orange light scattered around her as, instinctively, Electra began to move her feet in small sidesteps, keeping her body low. From the very first session it had been like that. The ease with which she held a weapon, the focus that she displayed. Their Spartan heritage showed itself far more in her than in any of her siblings.

  “How about we make this a wager?” Electra offered; her eyes still trained on her mother.

  “A wager you say?”

  For a twelve-year-old, she was far worldlier than either of her older sisters had been at that age, but Clytemnestra enjoyed the challenge.

  “What wager might you have in mind?”

  Electra continued to move her feet, her eye contact with her mother unbroken.

  “Orrin said he is heading to the shore tomorrow, to the port at Argos. He is guarding the meat and wine we are sending to Troy.” She hopped forwards briefly, before retiring again. “The journey will take half a day. Less, perhaps, if the men are quick loading.”

  “You still have not said what the wager is,” the Queen replied.

  Running her tongue across her bottom lip, Electra narrowed her gaze. “Let me go with him. Let me ride with him.”

  “You went riding yesterday.”

  “In the paddock. Always in the paddock. And always with you and the guards. I cannot gallop there. I cannot jump, or be free.”

  “The paddock is where I can keep you safe,” she replied, switching her own blade from one hand to the other and back again.

  “But I would be with Orrin. There is no man in the whole of Mycenae that I would be safer with. You cannot keep us locked up like this forever.”

  “Locked up?” She lowered her blade. “Is that what it is called when you protect your children?” She studied her daughter. Yes, Spartan blood ran through her veins all right, but there was so much of Agamemnon there too. The stubbornness. The refusal to see another’s point of view. It was no wonder she idolised her father. Fire burned in her eyes now. If she didn’t appear to contemplate her request, it would result in a sulk that she knew from experience could go on for weeks. What risk was there really in accepting her challenge?

  “Fine. If you disarm me, or strike me, you may ride with Orrin.”

  A grin spread across Electra’s face and she quickened her step.

  “I will let him know the moment I am done here.”

  Her posture changed, as she transformed from princess to hunter. Now fierce and unrelenting, she l
unged once, then again. Chrysothemis and Orestes stopped what they were doing to watch the scene unfolding. With gritted teeth, she skipped to the side, readying herself to make a third strike, but her mother swivelled on the ball of her foot and, before she had time to figure out what was happening, the Queen had her around the neck.

  “You are moving too early,” she said.

  “You told us to anticipate your moves.”

  “I am not saying do not anticipate. I am saying be more subtle. You are giving yourself away.”

  Her hand was still around Electra’s neck, pinning her daughter to her chest. She loosened her grip by a fraction, which was all the girl needed. Twisting under her mother’s elbow, she spun around and sliced the knife at her belly. The tip of the blade snagged on the fabric of her robe, before Clytemnestra pushed her away, with a kick square to the stomach. Unable to keep her balance, her daughter tumbled backwards and landed with a thump on her behind.

  “A good attempt,” Clytemnestra said, reaching out a hand to help her back up. “Maybe next time.”

  “I had you!”

  “No, you had my robe.”

  Red faced and covered in dust, Electra glared at her. “That is not fair!”

  Realising she would not accept her help, she pulled her hand back and turned around.

  “I said disarm me, or strike me. Your knife caught in my clothing for a moment. That is not the same thing.”

  “That is not fair! It was the wager!”

  “It was. One that you lost.”

  “You were never going to let me go, were you? You are going to keep us like this, as prisoners, forever.” Standing up, she threw her knife to the ground.

  “I guess, next time, you will have to beat me.”

  “Or I could just go with Orrin anyway!”

  The threat rang clear, causing the Queen to stop in her tracks. Jaw locked and eyes now blazing, she spun back to face her daughter. “You are a princess, Electra. I am the Queen. Orrin does not answer to you. Nobody does. If you want to see what happens when you go against my authority, then by all means try it. You will experience what a real prison feels like!”

  Tension sizzled between them, Electra’s eyes still flaming and her teeth grinding so fiercely it was audible. Finally, she turned and stormed up the steps to the palace.

  “I cannot wait until Father returns,” she yelled as a parting shot when she reached the top.

  “Electra!” Chrysothemis chased after her sister. “You cannot speak to Mother like that! Wait! Come back!”

  And with that they were both gone.

  Her words had stung, but Clytemnestra allowed for the fact that she didn’t know the truth. The father she idolised, the one she practically worshipped, was a figment of her imagination. If they understood, they would never leave her side. She had somehow managed to conceal the truth of Agamemnon’s role in their sister’s death over the years. She had told them that they had both been tricked by the priestesses of Artemis into bringing Iphigenia to them. That they had been praying together when the act had been committed. He had tried to stop it. That was what she had said. Not for his sake—never for him—but for theirs.

  Knowing that it would be pointless following her angry daughter, she turned to her youngest child who, for the whole of the sparring session, had been seated on the ground, playing with a collection of insects he had gathered.

  “What about you, my darling? Do you wish to fight with your mother this evening?”

  “Could you read to me instead?” he asked.

  Warmth bloomed inside her. Dear sweet Orestes. He was even less enamoured with the idea of fighting than Chrysothemis. Fortunately for him, he had been born with the advantage of being male. But his gentleness was what she loved most about him and she would do anything to preserve it as long as possible. She didn’t want to push him too much.

  “Come then, let us go inside. Perhaps we should get your sister something to eat while we are there.”

  As he clambered to his feet, she gazed back down the hillside to where the man was still sitting motionless. It would be dark soon. Wolves and wild dogs would prowl the fields, yet he seemed perfectly at ease where he was. A fool perhaps?

  “Mother, are you coming?”

  Her eyes remained on the figure a moment longer.

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” she replied and followed her son up the steps.

  But before moving inside she turned again and cast one last glance towards him.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  Chapter 8

  No matter how much she wished otherwise, Clytemnestra felt the loss of Iphigenia’s presence everywhere she went. Every corridor, every nook and cranny brought her to mind. The wide-open hallways, where she had pretended to be some wild beast and let her younger siblings chase her. The kitchen, where she had on more than one occasion become covered in flour, while helping the cooks prepare bread. And then the drawing room, where she had first picked up a lyre and plucked a simple tune, then practised every day until her songs were more beautiful than those of any musician Agamemnon had ever hired to entertain them. Every room seemed to hold her memory in the fabric of its walls, refusing to release her from its grasp. Some days, she thought she caught her scent on a breeze or she would run out of her chamber, sure she had heard her voice. It was grief. Clytemnestra had experienced this enough in her life to recognise it for what it was, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear.

  And there was no place she longed for her daughter so much as in the gardens. Large pillars, tapering up to ornate stone mouldings, marked out the edges, while the area inside was sectioned off, with gazebos and enough seating for fifty people to enjoy their surroundings. But the children loved it most of all for the fruit there. Grape vines hung on trellises over the daybeds, offering shade and refreshment in the heat of the summer, while the herbs and flowers exuded scents as varied as rosemary and passionflower. Electra would only ever pick fruit for herself or, occasionally, for Orestes too. But Iphigenia had always attacked the vines, armed with a basket that she would fill to the brim, before offering the contents to anyone who was relaxing nearby.

  The space felt barren now without her daughter singing to the birds or plucking flowers from around the fountains. Every rose bush, every patch of grass or cushion reminded Clytemnestra of her and she would feel her eyes burning, just approaching the area. Yet it was the heart of the palace. A place she knew she could not avoid, if only for her children’s sakes. And so, she found a way to distract herself there.

  Whilst the departure of the men for Troy should have seen the place grow quieter, the opposite was true. It had been easy enough to find women willing to spend a few hours each evening, sitting in the luxury of the palace, drinking wine and eating food at Clytemnestra’s invitation. Most wives now found themselves freer than they had ever known and they always had plenty to talk about. Some she knew from her previous social circle—parties Agamemnon had held, to honour himself mainly, or feasts organised for one god or another. Once the children were asleep, Laodamia would often appear too, to take a seat and converse, although Clytemnestra secretly suspected that her servant’s presence there was mostly to ensure than nothing too raucous occurred which might wake the children again. And so, the gossip and laughter went a small way towards filling the silence that would otherwise have left her heart and mind to wander. Or, at least, she told herself it did.

  That night, after distancing herself from the women, she gestured to her servant, who rose and approached her.

  “Laodamia, there is a man whom I have seen loitering today, from my veranda. He was outside the citadel’s walls. I believe he was watching me and the children.”

  “A local herder, My Queen?” she asked in a hushed voice, turning away from the rest of the women as she spoke.

  “I do not think so. I did not recognise him. Almost all the husbands have gone off to fight, and it is mostly the women who tend the sheep now. Besides, there were no animals with him that I co
uld see.”

  “Then why else would he be there?”

  “I am not sure. That is why I have asked you.”

  Laodamia nodded. She could not have been more than five years older than her mistress, yet in moments like this she seemed infinitely wiser.

  “Have you alerted Orrin, My Queen?”

  “Not specifically.”

  “It may be wise to. But I shall keep my ear to the ground and let you know if I hear of anything.”

  “Thank you. And could you ask the guards to place an extra man on duty outside the children’s chamber tonight, please? I am sure it is nothing, but you never know.”

  “Of course. I will do it now.”

  “Thank you. You can bring the women more wine when you return, if it is needed.”

  The servant looked back with a smile that creased the corners of her eyes and yet never quite shone within them. Something had probably happened many years before to make that sparkle leave, Clytemnestra suspected. The loss of a child, perhaps. Was that not the curse of the nursemaid? Maybe they had more in common than she had realised. No matter. She would never pry.

  On the other side of the gazebo, singing had begun. Iphigenia’s lyre now in yet another young woman’s hands. Tension gripped her.

  “Actually, I think I will go,” she said, jumping up. “You stay here. The day has tired me more than I thought. It is probably best if I head to bed now. I will see to the children first.”

  “Are you sure? If it is too noisy here, I can ask them to leave. You can have the place to yourself, if that is what you would prefer.”

  “No, no. Stay. Please stay. Enjoy your evening. There is plenty of wine. Help yourself. Be merry here.”

  “Thank you, My Queen. Sleep well.”

  “I can but pray.”

  Sleep well? Wishful thinking, as Laodamia well knew. Since arriving at Mycenae her slumbers had been fraught with nightmares. And now, nearly two decades later, those same bad dreams still tormented her. It did not matter how tired her body was when she closed her eyes, scenes of her past would unravel in her mind to haunt her.