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

by Hannah Lynn

  She did not meet with Chrysothemis to weave that day. Nor did she go outside with Orestes to admire the birds or search for lizards. Even the Council was left waiting for her presence. Instead she lay on her bed, eyes open, heartbroken. As evening fell her guests and friends arrived, women and men who had been coming for months now and would expect to see her.

  “Let me help you get dressed, My Queen,” Laodamia said, coming into the room and gently pulling the blankets from her.

  “Tell them I am sick. I am sick.”

  “No, My Queen. I will not do that.”

  Clytemnestra turned to face her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said no, My Queen, I shall not do that.”

  “I am ordering you.”

  Laodamia nodded slowly. “It does sound that way. Even so, my answer is the same. I will tell them no such thing. You are not sick.”

  She strode across the room and picked out a clean gown. A heavy fabric, predominantly green, with golden flowers embroidered along the hem.

  “Do you remember when you first arrived here? Do you remember what you were like? The frailest thing I had ever seen. I mean it. How you were a princess was beyond me. You looked like you belonged on the streets.”

  “Whatever game this is you are playing, Laodamia, you are treading on thin ice,” she warned, although her maid appeared not to hear.

  “Nothing more than skin and bones, My Queen. And they said you had not eaten a thing since leaving Sparta. Nothing. They said you barely even left the cabin, and I could tell by the look of you that they spoke the truth. You had made yourself a prisoner. Now some people said it was because you were young, that you did not want to leave your family, but I tended you then, remember? I cleaned your clothes, helped you bathe.”

  “What are you saying?” she whispered. “What is the point of this prattle?”

  “I am saying that I know, My Queen. I know that you have gone through the worst thing a mother can go through, not once, but twice. I know that when you lost that first child, it was so young that milk still flowed in you. I do not know what happened and I would never expect you to speak of it to me. I am just trying to tell you, My Queen, whatever the Princess said today, however much she wounded you, it cannot be so great compared to what you have suffered already. Nothing could. And yet you picked yourself back up. Even when it happened again. Even when he took Iphigenia from us. Now, would you like me to see to your hair?”

  Anger and disbelief seized Clytemnestra. For nearly two decades, she had avoided speaking of Alesandro and now, twice in one day, conversation had focused on him. Were the gods playing cruel games with her, forcing her to recall the horror all over again? She would accept Prometheus’ fate and have her liver pecked out every day, in preference to recalling that loss even one more time.

  “How much do you know?” she asked, terror gripping her.

  “I know nothing, My Queen, except what I saw.” Laodamia crossed the chamber to the mirror where she straightened out the brushes and combs. “And I am not here seeking gossip either. I have said my piece.” She hesitated before turning back to her. “The gods did not see fit to let me keep any of the children I bore, but I have always been grateful to you, My Queen, for letting me treat you and your children as if I were more than just a servant.”

  “Laodamia …”

  “These last few years I have often hoped that, had my own children lived, I would have been as good a mother to them as you are to yours.”

  Clytemnestra felt a lump in her throat.

  “You have to say that, I am the Queen.”

  “I think the fact that you are the Queen means I should have kept my mouth shut, do you not agree?”

  A half smile lifted the corners of her mouth, setting loose tears she didn’t even know had filled her eyes.

  “Right now, people are expecting you. Let us remind them just how beautiful their Queen is, shall we?”

  The courtyard was awash with life. Aegisthus was plucking clumsily at a lyre, much to the amusement of those around him. When she saw him, she felt her cheeks quickly rise in a smile, although the figure behind him made them drop again just as quickly.

  “I did not think we would see you here this evening, Mother?” Electra said. She had taken Clytemnestra’s seat and was lounging, legs extended. “I was just saying you had a fever.”

  Her fists clenched until her knuckles shone white and her nails dug into her palms.

  “A fever? I think not my daughter,” she said with a smile. “I am perfectly fine. Now move along. This time is for the grown-ups.”

  Her daughter’s eyes flashed.

  “We do not mind.” One of the ladies spoke. “She is so sweet. She makes us laugh.”

  She watched as the words stung Electra and a feeling of smug satisfaction rose within her.

  “Yes, she is a sweet child, is she not? Such a sweet little girl.”

  She stepped forwards, her glower demanding Electra relinquish her position on the seat. The pair locked eyes, but it was a brief battle. They both knew that to refuse the Queen now would only make Electra look as childish as they believed her to be, and there was no way she would give her mother that satisfaction.

  Lounging back on the daybed, Clytemnestra waved her hands.

  “Wine,” she said to the servant who came to attend her. “You will have a drink with us too Electra, my darling, will you not?”

  She had not planned this. She had not planned anything.

  Electra kept accepting the wine so willingly, never noticing how her mother kept indicating that her cup should be refilled each time she emptied it. She never realised that less and less water was being added either, until she was drinking it undiluted. An hour passed, and her cheeks were turning pink as the alcohol circulated in her veins.

  “Do you not think you should stop this now?” Aegisthus whispered to Clytemnestra. He seemed to be the only one who saw what she was doing. “You have made your point. Send the girl to her chamber.”

  “What do you think, Electra?” she asked. “Are you ready to go to bed with the other children?”

  The girl’s head lolled to the side. “I am more of a queen than you,” she slurred, reaching a hand down to pull her dagger from its sheath—the very one that Clytemnestra had brought her from Aulis. “I could rule them all.”

  “I guess that means she wants to stay,” Clytemnestra remarked.

  Laughter rang out around them, but Electra could barely turn her head to scowl. Her insults continued, not only directed at her mother, but at the gods who had provided her with such a weak parent and at a land that raised only men to be soldiers. The land, of course, not Agamemnon. Soon the pink tinge turned greenish and only when she tried to stand and fell, did Clytemnestra make their fair-wells to her guests and guide her to bed.

  She stayed beside her that night, to make sure she did not vomit in her sleep. Not that her daughter would appreciate the concern, of course.

  The groaning did not begin until long after noon.

  “Here, sit up and drink this,” Clytemnestra said, hoisting Electra up and pressing a cup of milk to her lips.

  She moaned and struggled, before finally swallowing a mouthful.

  “What did you do to me?” she asked. “What did you do, you bitch?”

  The Queen stiffened, although she kept her feelings hidden from her daughter.

  “Me? You do not remember what I did for you?”

  “This was your doing. You got me drunk, like a common peasant.”

  “Really? I forced wine down you, did I? I think you will find that you did that of your own accord. I did, however, stop you pulling a dagger on Christina for no reason that we could fathom. I am also the one who made offerings to Athena this morning, after you so blackened her name last night.”

  “You lie!”

  “Do I? Then, please, tell me what you do remember.”

  “I … I …” She cradled her head. Unable to stay upright any longer, she f
lopped back down onto the bed.

  “Tell me my child, if you do not remember those things, do you recall all the times you left your drink unattended, so that it could have been spiked with something far more sinister than spice? Do you remember accepting the request of a man three times your age, to show him around the palace, with no idea of his true intentions? Do you realise all the danger you would have been in, had I not been there?”

  The girl’s hands had moved to cover her ears, although she continued to shake her head.

  “Stupid. That was one of the things you called me, Electra. Unfit to rule this kingdom, you said. I could have let any number of things befall you last night, had I so wanted.” She got to her feet. “But I will protect you from every evil in this world,” she said, “including yourself.”

  “Mother?”

  Striding to the door, she stopped at the sound of her name.

  “Yes, my child.” She turned, waiting for the expected apology. A flutter of hope rose within her. Her children needed her. All of them, even Electra now that the consequences of her actions had sunk in. But when her daughter spoke, all hope was dashed.

  “I was right. You are a bitch.”

  Chapter 19

  Electra’s foul mood and disdain for her mother went on for days, which turned into weeks. When months had passed, Clytemnestra was forced to accept that the relationship she had hoped for, of the kind she’d had with Iphigenia and cherished so much with Chrysothemis, would never be there with her youngest daughter. In company, they tolerated each other’s presence: they avoided one another in private. They did not eat or drink together, or even converse. There was now only one thing they shared in common—affection for Orestes.

  Despite her love for all her children, the young Prince was Clytemnestra’s greatest delight. His level of conversation had reached new heights and he could chatter on for hours about animals, fish, insects or birds, in fact anything that walked, swam, crawled or flew. Much to Electra’s great disappointment, he showed no interest at all in fighting. He was like a breath of fresh air to the Queen. As such, every spare hour she could squeeze out of any day, she would spend with her son. Only when evening came, would she head to the courtyard and her guests, to sit beside Aegisthus.

  Reports from Troy remained intermittent and unclear. With each messenger that arrived, she found herself more conflicted. The end of the war would mean the Mycenaean women would be reunited with their husbands and sons, unless tragedy had befallen them. They had worked tirelessly in the men’s absence, harvesting food, fishing, fixing broken roofs, mending goat pens, in fact doing anything and everything that was needed. There was not a job they had not tackled between them and they deserved some respite now and a return to family life.

  However, the one blot on the horizon with the homecoming of the menfolk was that it would also mean the return of Agamemnon. If rumours were to be believed, they had somehow survived Trojan attacks, plagues and near starvation. Not that he would ever suffer. He’d see his men go without before he sacrificed his normal rations. Fortunately, news came so seldom that she usually managed to suppress thoughts of him and focus on her kingdom, her people, and her palace.

  One evening, she was seated next to Aegisthus when conversation turned to Troy and the war. The particular topic that night was Helen, or more precisely, what Menelaus would do to her once she was finally rescued.

  “It was a betrayal,” someone said. “She left with Paris of her own volition. That is what they have always said in Sparta. He will make her suffer for it, for the rest of her life.”

  “I do not believe so,” said another. “You do not wage a war so long for someone you only wish to hurt.”

  “Then what? You believe he loves her?”

  “Of course I do. This is more than just a battle of pride. It is a battle of hearts. Which is why he will win. Eventually, Paris will return to loving his own reflection more than Helen. And when she sees this, she will be glad for Menelaus to welcome her back.”

  “Yes, because his family has such a long history of sympathy and forgiveness!”

  No one looked at Clytemnestra as they discussed this. Unspoken rules had been established long ago and they all knew just how far they could go. Talk of battles was fine. Talk of rape and pillaging was acceptable, but not preferable. Talk of other kingdoms was encouraged, but nothing derogatory of Mycenae. And nothing at all of Clytemnestra or her children. This was their home, and anyone who disrespected that would be quickly dealt with. With this understanding, the nightly gatherings had continued in peace over the years.

  Conversation soon moved on to Penelope and her battles with suitors, and then to Hector and Achilles. Who would triumph in hand-to-hand combat? What would be left of Ithaca when Odysseus returned?

  The debate had been going back and forth for some time, when a new group ambled into the courtyard. Some familiar faces, some less so. It was an unknown young man, with a limp, who spoke first.

  “I heard this was a place for the old folk of Mycenae to gather,” he said. “But I am pleasantly surprised. There are more young women in here than in Agamemnon’s tent in Troy.”

  The chattering stopped. A few fearful glances flickered towards the Queen. Mention of Agamemnon at all, usually resulted in her prompt exit. But she decided to bide her time, hoping the moment would pass. However, the man did not read the situation and carried on.

  “What is wrong with you all?” he asked the silent men and women around him. “It is a great joke. I have been waiting for the chance to use it. Mind you ladies, I fear that you are all a little more aged than our great King prefers. From what I hear, his latest prize is little older than the daughter he slaughtered. Then again, I guess when you are King of Kings you can take your pick.”

  You could have heard a pin drop. Every face in the courtyard drained of blood. No one moved. Not even Clytemnestra. No queen would be naive enough to think that her husband was not spoken of disrespectfully in private, but not in his own palace and not like this. She should kill him there and then, she thought. It was no less than he deserved. Everyone gradually turned to her, awaiting her response, no one wishing to make a move before she did. The man, following their eyes, now realised his error and his own grew wide with fear.

  “Your Majesty, I … I—”

  “No.”

  The single word was all she could manage. With her heart pounding, the moment stretched out. She could order him lashed to within an inch of his life and everyone there would understand. But, instead, she smiled at him.

  “Come. Drink,” she said to him, just managing to control her voice. She turned to the girl with the lyre in her hand. “Please, a tune. Something cheerful.”

  The music started again and wine was taken in small, considered sips. Minutes passed and the conversation slowly increased in volume, the comments about Agamemnon and Iphigenia avoided, although not forgotten. When the carafes needed refilling, Clytemnestra saw her opportunity. Lifting two from a side table, she walked out through the columns, as if to do the job herself.

  She had barely stepped into the corridor, when a figure appeared beside her.

  “That is not a queen’s job. Call someone … or I will do it myself.”

  “Aegisthus, this is my home. I do not need you to tell me how to run it.”

  Two servants appeared from the direction of the kitchen and looked on nervously.

  “Go, fetch more wine from the cellar,” she said, holding out the vessels. “We are fine here.”

  Nodding rapidly, they scurried away as instructed, leaving them alone in the shadow of a pillar.

  “I am sorry,” he said, resting a hand on the small of her back. “I am so sorry for what he said. Whoever he is, he did not deserve the tolerance you showed him.”

  Her gaze remained on the departing servants.

  “It is not the women. He has had them since the day he first bedded me. But to talk of her in the same breath as …” The image almost choked her. “He took my
daughter’s life, and now her memory has become little more than a punchline, while he lives a life of whoring and excess. Meanwhile, I am keeping his kingdom going, and protecting our children, even when they cannot see they need it. What would happen, I wonder, if we were the ones who required rescuing? What would he do then, if his own family ever really needed him?”

  “My dearest Clytemnestra, I doubt there would ever be a situation in which you could not defend yourself.”

  “That is not the point, is it?” Her eyes burned with tears, one of which escaped and wove its way down her face. Aegisthus caught it with his thumb. “She is the point. What he did to her, is the point.”

  He bowed his head. “I know that it will be of little consolation for you to hear this but, I promise, if you or any of the children were in danger, I would be there. I may have no army, no fleet, but I would fight to the death for you.”

  She tried to control her tears, finding words difficult.

  “That would be a consolation,” she managed at last. “A great one.”

  Laughter echoed through from the courtyard. She shuddered at the sound.

  “Let us not go back in there,” he said, taking her hand. “Let us find somewhere else.”

  She led the way through the vast hallways. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor and their shadows, cast by the flickering lamps, skittered along the walls. He would have walked this way before, she reminded herself, all those years ago, when he killed his uncle and the palace was his for the taking. How many lifetimes ago must that feel to him? she wondered, as she pushed open a door and held it wide for him.

  “Your chamber?” he asked.

  “It is the one place I know we will not be disturbed.”

  For so many years, this room had been a prison to her. During those first months, before she had fallen pregnant with Iphigenia, she had counted the coloured, mosaic floor tiles—the white and the grey, the red and the yellow—day after day after day. Anything to stop herself thinking about what she had lost, and what she would have to face when night fell. As the years passed, she had learned to smile when Agamemnon came to her. Learned to appease him and please him, so that he might think twice before taking his belt to her. Only when she had been pregnant, had she been safe from his blows, although after the birth of each daughter she had been the victim of his disappointment.