by Hannah Lynn
As she sat on her bed, her eyes returned to those same mosaics. She could not remember how many tiles there were anymore. Perhaps one day she would count them again.
“Do you know that there are no walls to protect us from invasion in Sparta?” The first comment out of her mouth and she had no idea where it had come from.
“I did know that, yes.”
“Yes, I suppose you would. Most people do. Spartans do not need walls. We protect ourselves. Each other. We are so strong together. Ever since I came here, I wondered: are the walls meant to keep people out, or keep them in? All these years, and I still cannot decide.”
There were no sounds to distract them. No music or laughter. No cicadas or rushing water. It was just the two of them, alone. He stepped towards her.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Anything. You know that.”
“I fear it will cause you pain.”
“What further pain can I suffer now? The gods and my husband have seen to it that it is my constant companion.”
Perhaps that sounded like self-pity, vile and loathsome as it was to her, but it was the truth. Not since that day when Agamemnon had taken the two loves of her life, had she ever felt whole. The dull ache always remained, like a malady she could never recover from.
“There is another story from that day, Clytemnestra. The day that you lost Iphigenia. One you have never told me.”
“I do not speak of that day.”
“I know you do not. But they say you carried her down the hillside in your arms. They say you did not let her go, even when darkness came and the winds raged around you. They say that no one helped you, no one came to your aid, as you carried your dead child.”
“Aegisthus. Please do not do this. Do not make me relive it.”
“I do not wish to cause you pain, my love. You must know I would never want to do that.” He knelt on the ground at her feet. “You did not let her go, Clytemnestra. And you must believe, by all the power of the gods, that she knows that. And Alesandro. He should have been safe. As sons can avenge their fathers, mothers should be allowed to avenge their children. What has happened to you is a tragedy, but you never let them go. You must understand that. You are strong and fearless and nothing Agamemnon could say or do will ever change that.”
Once again, she fought to control her emotions as he spoke.
“More than anything, Clytemnestra, I wish I could take away the sorrow. I am so sorry for all that you have suffered and I wish I could have been there to help you. But I will never let you go now. Just like you, I will never give up.”
His eyes were brimming with tears and she realised her own cheeks were wet. Holding her breath, she reached out and touched his face.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I want you to know that you need never be alone again.”
“I know. She could feel the warmth flowing from him and it was as if something missing had been replaced, something she had been longing for all her life, not just these past few years.
“Clytemnestra …” he whispered.
Chapter 20
She woke to the rays of the early morning sun glistening through the window, illuminating his face and giving it a golden appearance. He seemed ageless in sleep. All the lines, carved so deeply when awake, seemed to have melted away, offering her a glimpse of a younger Aegisthus. A man she wished she could have known. Gradually, his eyes fluttered open.
“I have just realised that this is the first week I have slept soundly, since I arrived in Mycenae,” she said, as he stretched out beside her. “Can you believe that? Twenty years, and all I needed was you.”
“I think it probably helps that you are not lying on the stone floor of the children’s bedroom.” He grinned and she nudged him with her elbow. He caught her wrist and kissed it, moving his lips all the way up to her neck.
Winter melted into spring, and Aegisthus remained at her side. The transition had felt so natural—the move from confidant and friend to lover. He spent his days and nights at the palace, guiding her, counselling her, but never imposing on her as a queen or as a person. If she thought his knowledge would be beneficial, then she sought his help. If not, she continued to deal with matters herself.
And all of her children, bar one, having been given the time to adjust, couldn’t have been more accepting of him. Chrysothemis had at first seemed concerned by Clytemnestra’s disloyalty to Agamemnon, but it had not taken long to sway her. Still enchanted with the ideal of true love, she watched the couple with hope. And at last Clytemnestra could show her what a genuine partnership should be based on: equality, compassion and trust.
As for Orestes, he finally had the father figure he so deserved. Aegisthus did not try to dominate him, as Agamemnon would, using fear or humiliation, but guided him, listening carefully to what he had to say, no matter how tedious those ramblings may have seemed to others, Clytemnestra included. He would sit and nod, as if spellbound by his every word.
“What is this one?” Orestes asked one day, having sprinted through the palace in search of Aegisthus, his hands cupped around yet another new specimen. “I found it in the garden. Have you seen anything this colour before? What do you think it is?”
“That…” Aegisthus replied, taking the creature gently from Orestes’ hands into his own, “is a bristle worm.”
“It is?”
“It is. But you did not find it in the palace, did you? These live in the sea. How on earth have you got hold of one, all this way inland?”
Orestes’ face lit up in a grin. “Orrin had one of the merchants bring it up from Argos. Do you think we could keep it here? We could put it in the fountain.”
“Somehow I do not think your mother would take too kindly to that. Besides, it needs salt water, if it is to survive.”
Orestes was crestfallen, but this would last only until a new creature caught his eye, at which point he would repeat the process all over again.
“How do you know all this?” Clytemnestra heard him ask Aegisthus one morning. “How did you learn what they all are?”
“Like any man does, Orestes, from someone much older and wiser.”
“Do you think it is possible to know the names of all the animals in the world?” he asked, his ability to question unending. Clytemnestra looked on from a distance, grinning at the pair. By this point, she would normally have tried to distract her son with something else, maybe by suggesting a snack. But, as Aegisthus continued to answer with the same level of considered care that he had the previous one hundred questions, she was loth to interrupt them.
“I think you would need a very long life,” he said, “and a lot of spare time to track them all down.”
Orestes’ face fell. “I will get no free time when I am king. Even now, I have to sit in on long meetings, even though I am forbidden to speak.”
“You do not have to talk to learn,” he replied. “In fact, often it is better if you do not. Far better to listen.”
“That cannot be right.”
“Why not? Animals do not speak, and it gives them more time to learn about their surroundings. Think how much harder it would be for them to survive, if they had to talk too.”
Tilting his head to the side, Orestes considered this idea.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I still do not like all the meetings.” And they laughed, filling Clytemnestra’s heart with joy.
Electra remained the only fly in the ointment. Her relationship with her mother had gone from frosty to non-existent. In Aegisthus’ first year living at the palace, the Princess could not have said more than ten words to him and that number barely doubled during the second. She would not speak his name or dine with him. She ignored his offers to train with her and made every attempt to demean him in front of members of the household. It was the one blot on Clytemnestra’s happiness, the one dark cloud that hovered over them. But she learned to endure it. There would be years to make amends to her daughter. Years for Electra to see
that the wonderful father she had built up in her mind, was a figment of her imagination. Since her arrival in Mycenae, she had felt herself shrinking into a shallower version of who she had once been. Aegisthus had brought her back to life and around him, she felt herself start to shine again. She was not prepared to give that up. Not even for Electra.
As the tenth year of the war came to pass, she considered her life and her kingdom complete. While she knew that Aphrodite would not have entirely forgiven her father for his impiety, she allowed herself a glimmer of hope that, perhaps, she had completed his punishment. That losing Tantalus, Alesandro and Iphigenia had been enough to repay his debt. She almost came to believe that it was true. Until the beacon burned.
The summer day had been scorching and dry. Brittle earth covered the surrounding hills. It had been too hot to meet in the throne room for long, so Clytemnestra had taken her leave of the Council, removed Orestes, and left Aegisthus to continue the discussions.
Now twelve years old, Orestes was still smaller than other children his age—shorter and thinner—although he appeared not to mind. He had taken Aegisthus’ advice and become a listener and would contemplate deeply every decision he made. It was a good trait for a king, she and Aegisthus agreed. To show that degree of consideration in everything he did would serve him well.
They were sipping wine that evening and discussing the fact that Orestes needed to take a greater role in the Council, when she was suddenly distracted by a light, flickering faintly from across the horizon. At first, she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. But as the night drew in, the flicker became a steady glow, which seemed to be coming from the direction of Mount Arachneus. It had been many years since they had prepared the bonfires. A beacon was only to be lit there after a signal from Messapion, and that only in response to one from Lemnos. Fires on mountainsides across the Aegean meant just one thing. Troy had fallen. The war was won. Agamemnon would be coming home.
“Do you think it could be a mistake?’” Clytemnestra heard the tremble in her own voice. “The earth has been very dry. Maybe it started as just a shepherd’s fire and someone mistook it for a signal.”
“The beacons are guarded day and night,” Aegisthus said, holding her closely in his arms, “A soldier would not make that mistake.”
“So what do we do now?”
“I do not know.”
She could hear his voice contained as much fear as her own.
An hour passed and the pair did not move from the veranda. Finally, he pulled her away. “It will be days, if not weeks, before the ships arrive. You need sleep. Tomorrow, when you are rested, we will make a plan.”
Her eyes remained locked on the distant flames. They looked almost alive, as if they were clawing upwards, taunting her.
“Yes,” she whispered. “We will make a plan.”
That night, she did not sleep, nor did she lie in the bed next to Aegisthus. Instead, she took to the citadel. With a cloak over her head, she roamed the cobbled streets. Alleyways that would be full to bursting during the day, now echoed with nothing more than the scuttling of rats. Stalls were empty and closed for the night. The muted glow of soft lamplight shone from the windows of homes belonging to people she did not know. People she would probably never meet. How was it possible to be so alone in a city of so many?
Finding little peace in the deserted town, she headed next to the temple. It was busier than she had anticipated, but she should not have been surprised. The war was over, but that did not guarantee the safe return of the sons of Mycenae. Seas were treacherous. Journeys always claimed lives. But were any of the women there praying as she prayed? she wondered. Pleading not for their husband’s safety, but for his demise.
Smoke weaved in delicate tendrils from candles. She found a space amongst the petitioners and knelt, but could not find the words she needed. So instead, she waited for the gods to tell her what to do. Hours went by. A simple sign was all that she was asking for, to show her that they understood, that they would protect her and her children from whatever future awaited them. But as more time elapsed, she realised that they had nothing for her. No help would come and she had run out of time.
Finally, as the first rays of sunlight splintered over the citadel, Clytemnestra returned to the palace, coming to rest outside the children’s chamber. The three of them were sleeping, almost soundlessly. The soft blankets rose and fell with the rhythm of their breathing, each so different in their slumber: Electra, lying flat on her back, Chrysothemis curled up tightly into a ball, and dear Orestes, stretched right out, so that his feet and fingers peeked from under the sheets. No matter their differences, she had three beautiful children in her life. But how long would it stay that way? She had birthed five, and Agamemnon had taken two. What new agreements had he struck, while he had been away fighting, using his two remaining daughters as bargaining tools? To which tyrant princes were they to be wed, to extend his circle of power? And what alliance would he force on Orestes? Two innocent children had been stripped of their lives by his hands. What of the ones that remained?
What she needed was a plan, one that would ensure he could never hurt any of them again. Moving quietly, she returned to the chamber where Aegisthus was still asleep in their bed. Gently, she took him by the shoulders and rocked him awake.
“Clytemnestra? What is it? What is it, my love? Is he here already? Surely not.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I do not know where he is.”
“Then what do you need?”
Her pulse was as steady as if she were plucking grapes from a vine, as she looked her lover squarely in the eye and spoke with a new-found certainty.
“Agamemnon must die.”
Chapter 21
“It is the only way to keep them safe, surely you understand that?”
It had been five days since they had first seen the beacon burning on Mount Arachneus, but there was still no sign of the fleet. Word had it that a storm was raging across the Aegean Sea, one they suspected was stopping the men from leaving Troy and returning home. If the gods were merciful, the royal ship would capsize, or Scylla would drag it beneath the waves and feast on Agamemnon’s bones, and she wouldn’t need to slit his throat, the way he had her loved ones.
“Perhaps he would let you go?” Aegisthus suggested. “Try asking him.”
“Let us consider how well his brother handled Helen’s desire to do the same thing,” she replied. “Besides, even if he did, what about the children? What would happen to them?”
He chewed on his lip. “He might let the girls come with us,” he said.
“And what good would that be, abandoning Orestes in the house of a bully? No, I will not do it. When Agamemnon is left on his own with my children, they end up dead. Besides, Electra would not come with us. As long as he lives, she will follow him, the stupid girl. This is the only way. You must see that.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Frown lines, once so fleeting, now seemed a permanent fixture, and showed no signs of fading. “We need to consider our options, that is all I am saying. I have killed rashly before, when I was certain it was the right thing to do, remember? Think of what that cost me. Cost us both.” He tipped her head towards him and planted a kiss on the top. “We must not be hasty.”
Days passed. Each one bringing her husband’s return closer. Meetings with the politicians were a thing of the past now. They were not interested in submitting to her authority when in a short while their true leader, the King of Kings, would be there. Her mind replayed the same, single thought: he must die. Agamemnon must die.
“Mother. Mother, can you hear me? Mother, are you well??”
Clytemnestra was startled to find Orestes standing beside her, a look of concern on his face.
“Sorry, my love, did you say something?”
“We are going to the tower to look for the ships. Do you wish to come with us?”
The question was not registering. Scratching her head, she fought for clarity.
“The ships? Are they here? Can you see them already?” The blood was draining from her face.
Orestes’ reply stopped the rising panic. “No, not yet. But Electra thinks it will be any day now. Do you wish to come and look with us?”
The tower was outside the palace limits. Not far, but beyond them all the same.
“Who is taking you there? You cannot go alone.”
“We will not. Orrin will be with us. And you, too, if you so wish.”
His big brown eyes were like pools she could lose herself in. Never would she be parted from them. Not if she had her way. Shaking her head, she smoothed down his hair.
“You go. I will stay here. Let me know what you see.”
He nodded, the look of concern still evident in his eyes.
“If they do not arrive today, maybe tomorrow you will come with us?”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Even sparring with Aegisthus could not distract her. She found her nerves so frayed that she would overestimate his moves, flinching or darting when she should have been holding still. The guards watching her did not help either. Their eyes seemed to be judging her every action. If she faced Electra in her current state, she would be beaten, without doubt. She shuddered at the thought.
She tried other ways to occupy her mind, to stop it wandering into dark places, but failed. It kept coming back to the only thing she could do if Agamemnon returned to Mycenae. And, inevitable as it had always been, that day soon arrived.
She had been waking before dawn each day, ready to start searching the sea for signs of the ships. So many days had gone by, that she had started to believe it would never happen. But that morning she had woken with a feeling of dread in the pit of her belly. This would be it, she somehow knew, before she had even taken her first sip of water. This would be the day he returned. And so, she had headed to the tower and waited, standing with her hands resting on the parapet, not moving, her heart beating erratically, her eyes trained on the same patch of sea beyond the port of Argos where they would dock.