by Hannah Lynn
Again, more snorting. “My body is of no concern to you.”
Stepping back, she offered her most wounded look.
“Why are you being so cruel? Because I took a lover? Would you rather I spent ten years withering away? He was a plaything, My King, that is all. A distraction to keep my mind from the constant fear of losing you.”
This time she received a grunt, only slightly less derisive than the snorting had been. “I struggle to believe that.”
“Here,” she said. “Let me show you how much I have missed you.”
Spinning around, she crossed the room and strode up the steps, gesturing to the servants with a wave of her hand. “Out, all of you. Out now.”
He shifted in his seat. “What are you doing?”
“Do not worry, My King. You can stay exactly as you are.”
She had not planned this, but it would work. Just a short distance from her was the open wooden chest containing the ancient axe. All she needed was a minute alone with him. Her pulse raced, as the servants scurried past her. When the last had finally gone through the door, she closed it. She steadied her breathing, took one last glance towards the weapon, and turned back towards her husband. Her heart nearly froze when she found him only inches behind her.
“So, what now?” he demanded. Any hint of the tiredness had gone from his eyes, which were staring at her with a ferocity that caused the hairs on her arms to rise. She remembered only too well how he had bested her in the temple, after Iphigenia’s death. But the tables had turned. He was no longer the mighty warrior king he’d once been, and she was no longer the feeble queen. She had not been strong enough to save her children before but now her body and skills were finely honed for combat, like a true daughter of Sparta. She was more than a match for the Agamemnon who stood before her.
“On the throne,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “The way it used to be. I can show you that the fire is still there.”
He did not move. Instead, he continued to stare at her. Her pulse rate was edging upwards. Then he clapped his hands loudly.
“Guards!” he called.
Two of his men entered the throne room.
“Yes, My King,” they said in unison.
“Mind the door and see that we are not disturbed.”
“We shall wait outside, My King.”
“Nonsense, you will remain here.”
As he spoke, his eyes remained fixed on Clytemnestra. Her mind raced to think of a way of turning this around. Hesitate now and any future opportunity might be lost. Finally, with no other choice left to her, she let a smile form on her lips.
“Show me this fire you speak of,” he said.
Taking his hand, she led him back to the throne and lowered him gently onto it, before kneeling down in front of him and parting his robes.
Every moment, from start to finish, she thought she might vomit, or faint, or simply cry out at the injustice of it all. The names he had called her, the insults he had thrown at her, never before had she considered any of them true. Yet, kneeling there on that stone floor, debased and humiliated in front of his men as he moaned in pleasure, she knew that she was no better than Cassandra. What it all came down to in the end, was survival. Survival, at any cost.
When the deed was done, she kept her head down and pinched her cheeks to force the colour back into them. Rising, she looked her husband in the eye.
“Shall I get the servants to run us a bath? I assume you recall those times as vividly as this?”
“Perhaps I need a little reminder of that too,” he said, with a lecherous grin that caused her whole body to shudder. “Although after food. Food first.”
“Why not at the same time? I shall see to the bath now. You can bring us some wine. And see if you can find some of those dates I love. You remember which ones, do you not?”
His eyes narrowed by just a fraction, then his face hardened.
“Tell me, of all the men that roam the world, why Aegisthus? Why him?”
“Really?” The question was as bold, her eyes as wide with confusion, as she could manage. She tilted her head to the side, trying to ignore the pounding in her chest. “I thought you had already figured that out.”
“Figured what out?”
“He is in love with me. He has been since the first time he saw me. And I thought what better revenge for my husband than killing his father’s murderer. And not just that. At the very end, he would know that he had been fooled―that I had helped you do it.”
The King’s expression changed, although it did not soften entirely. But a flicker of doubt now crossed his brow. “All this, between you and my cousin, was to help me enact my revenge?”
“Of course it was, my love. Why else would I lower myself to be with a man like that, after so many years with you? The gods require your father be avenged, Agamemnon. You told me that the very first time I met you, all those years ago in Sparta.”
“You remember?”
“I remember quite clearly. And a revenge this long in the taking, will likely be the sweetest of all.”
Chapter 25
The moment Agamemnon and his guards left, she fell to her knees again, breathless. The pain in her chest felt like an iron brand was being pressed into her flesh. She gagged at the taste in her throat. She would have preferred to spend the rest of the night drinking strong wine, in an attempt to remove every trace of him, both physical and mental. But, during the time spent satisfying him, she had devised a plan. One that would work if she acted quickly.
She pushed herself onto her feet, raced up the steps and pulled the axe from the chest. It was heavier than she had expected, and larger in her hands than she had imagined too. Should anyone see her with it, there would be no logical explanation. So she pulled a small tapestry from the wall and wrapped it up. Then, cradling the bundle in her arms, almost as she had the body of Iphigenia, she scurried out of the throne room and headed back towards the palace sleeping quarters.
Given that Agamemnon had failed to remember, even as a newlywed, any of her preferences, she had no doubt that it would take him a little time to gather together a platter worthy of their bath-time tryst. Not to mention the fact that he would be sure to sample several of the wines, before selecting which one he wanted. There would be time. She just had to keep moving. Her first stop was the bathroom. With no orders yet given to the servants, the room was still empty. Using her shoulder, she closed the door behind her and dropped her burden to the ground, the thickness of the tapestry muting the fall of the axe on the tiles.
There was a woven screen by the wall. Easing it out slightly, she created a gap, too small for anyone to step into but large enough to conceal the weapon. Then, she lifted the bundle back up and unwrapped it. This time, she set the axe down gently, draping the fabric loosely over the top, so that it could be easily removed. Confident that it was sufficiently hidden, she ordered the first servant she saw to fill the bath, then returned to her chamber, to fetch the final items she needed.
Cassandra was lying on the bed. Clytemnestra didn’t bother with greetings.
“I have come to fetch something,” she said.
“You have not taken your things yet,’ she remarked without malice. “You intend on moving back in here, do you not? But I know you need to accomplish something first.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know so much, so, so much, My Queen. But it is of little consequence any more. Of little consequence at all.”
Ignoring these crazy ramblings, she moved across to a large oak chest. Digging deep, she removed something suitable: a sheer gown. Over the years, he had often made her wear such items. Things that didn’t leave anything to the imagination but left her fully exposed to him. Not for long this time, she thought. Casting it to one side, she continued to rummage until she found the other article she was looking for. Another garment, full of happy memories of Electra and Iphigenia and all the joy her children had brought her. Her heart ached at the thought of havin
g to sully it. But it was for them that she needed to use it. All would then be put right.
“The King and I will be taking a bath,” she said, finally looking her usurper in the eye. “I would appreciate it if we were not disturbed.”
“Of course. I understand.”
“No,” she replied. “You do not.”
“Yes, I do. But you need not worry.”
A cold chill went down her spine. She shook it away. “Just stay in here,” she barked.
When she returned to the bathroom, the servants had filled the tub. Sweet smelling oils had been added, causing spectrums of colour to float on the surface.
“That will do,” she said to the woman who was scattering petals on the water. “You can leave now. And we are not to be disturbed, under any circumstances.”
“Yes, My Queen.”
“No one shall enter here, except the King, until I say so.”
Gathering up her things, the servant nodded once more and backed out. With the room now empty again, Clytemnestra checked the axe. The fabric had not been disturbed. She moved it just a fraction and tilted the handle upwards slightly. Now she knew its weight, it would be easier to lift. Confident that all was as it should be, she slung both the gowns over the top of the screen, then stepped out of her robe and into the water. Even in the warmest weather, she found comfort in a bath. She loved the silky feel, as her shoulders slipped beneath the surface. Aegisthus had joined her in this very tub, a hundred times or more. He would spend every moment caressing her skin, tracing every line with his fingertips. They would kiss and caress, as if every time they saw each other’s bodies were the first, not leaving until they realised the water had turned cold, when their arms started to prickle with goose bumps.
“You look comfortable there.”
Agamemnon stood in the doorway. Behind him, a servant carried a platter of fresh fruit, not a date of any description in sight.
“I am, you should join me.”
“So soon?”
“Have the years changed you that much, My King? I can remember the days when we did not know if it was sunset or sunrise outside. Now, let me see that scar of yours. Maybe a wife’s lips can help it heal a little quicker.”
She certainly did remember those days. She had felt little more than a slave, trapped in her chamber, never knowing when he would return or what he would ask of her. She knew he would not recall the way she had sobbed silently, as he forced himself into her, again and again. He only ever remembered what he chose to.
With only the briefest hesitation, he dropped his robe and stepped into the bath. A wave of water rushed over the sides. He was a fat oaf, round and disgusting, and the sight of his bulging belly repulsed her to the core. But she didn’t show it. Instead, she threw back her head and laughed.
“We are not quite so young and lithe anymore,” she said.
A smile rose on his lips, as he reached for her breasts. Good, she thought. The more relaxed he is, the less he will see it coming.
“Does it still hurt?” She ran a finger over his scar, which was even longer and deeper than she had first observed. “Who did this?”
“All these questions,” he said. “All this affection. I did not expect such a warm homecoming from you.”
“No?”
His eyes bored into hers and she was grateful for the steam, which disguised the sweat building up on her neck.
“You realise the sacrifice was for the good of us all, don’t you. The good of the men. Your sister too. You do understand why the child had to die?”
The child! She wanted to scream at him. Our child. Did he even remember her name? He had probably slaughtered so many others during his time in Troy that it all blurred into one.
“I will not deny that it took me many years to accept it,” she said, lowering her gaze to the oily sheen on the water. “But I know why you did what you did.”
“Good. I am glad you do not retain any bitterness. There is little as unattractive as a disapproving woman. Particularly an older one.”
She would have dearly loved to push his head under the water right then and hold it there. But, even in his reduced state, she did not doubt who would win, if it came to a battle of strength.
“Let us move to your chamber,” she said. “Let me show you what this older woman can do.”
A cascade of water streamed down her body, as she stood up. Agamemnon seemed transfixed by the sight. An older woman, of course—she no longer had the youthful glow of Cassandra—but the hard training she had been undertaking, to ensure her children’s safety had left her body toned and firm. Her exertions with Aegisthus, both in and out of the bedroom, had produced muscles across her stomach that belied the birth of five children. And, whatever his criticisms and preferences, Agamemnon would have had to accept whatever whore he could get his hands on during the past years before the defeat of Troy.
In one, sweeping step, she left the tub, then crossed the room to the screen and the sheer gown hanging there. She slipped it over her head and then pulled it down her glistening body. The material clung to her wet skin, and still he could not draw his eyes away.
“You are magnificent,” he said.
A broad smile crossed her face.
“Come,” she said. “I brought a robe for you, too. Let us retire to your chamber. I have had ten, long years in which to devise new ways to tease you.”
Grinning so broadly that she thought she could detect drool running down his chin, he hoisted himself out of the bathtub.
“Here,” she said, and tossed him the second garment.
The moment his head ducked underneath the hem of the fabric, she raced around the screen and pulled out the axe. This was it. This was the moment.
“What is this?” He asked, in a muffled half-chuckle. “I cannot find the neck. How strange. Clytemnestra. Clytemnestra?”
“Yes, my love?” she answered, lifting the axe high into the air.
His arms were flailing around, as he sought the place for his head to escape. This gown, that had once caused his children such laughter, would now bring them security.
“What is—”
He never finished the question as, with every ounce of strength she possessed, she ploughed the axe deep into his sternum.
“Cly—”
Her name was cut short, as blood filled his lungs and it degenerated into a wet gurgle. The gown remained over his head, the white fabric now blooming with a red flower, which grew larger and larger with every failing heartbeat. She twisted the axe, hearing and feeling his bones crack beneath its rusty blade.
Her one regret was that she could not look him in the eye. It was such a shame that he could not see her final retribution, for all that he had done to her and her loved ones. But, as he staggered backwards and toppled into the steaming water, she realised she did not care. This was enough. Leaning over his body, she watched as the pink bubbles grew fewer and fewer, until they had stopped altogether.
She had done her job. She had protected her children. The King was dead.
Chapter 26
Clytemnestra had intended to make his death look like an accident but, looking at the scene now, she knew that would be impossible. The axe was buried deep in his ribs and, even if she could manage to pull it out, she would never be able to hide the evidence of what had happened to him. What could she say had caused such an injury? Short of a raging bull in the bathroom, there was nothing.
So, she would plead self-defence, she told herself. She would say that he was the one who had brought the axe, wishing to punish her for her affair with his cousin. He had lulled her into a false sense of security, then brought out the weapon. If people asked, she would say that, by some gift of the gods, she had wrestled it off him. Besides, it was not as if he hadn’t raised his hand to her in the past. And everyone had seen the way he had treated her since his return. But what about the neckless robe? Her mind raced. That would look very suspicious. Maybe she could rip apart the seam where the head was mean
t to go through. Her sewing skills were so poor, it should be easy.
She plunged her hands into the bath. A layer of oil still floated on the top, and the water below was now red and viscous. She gripped the silky fabric between her hands, only to have it slip through her grasp as she pulled on it. She tried again and then yet again but, each time, it eluded her, the weight of his body keeping it below the surface. She could cut it, she thought, then immediately dismissed the idea with a shake of her head. A haphazard cut would stand out. And so, what? Another accident? A simple mistake in choosing a gown she had forgotten even existed? That would have to do. But then how could he have raised the axe to her, if he could not see what he was doing?
She stepped back, her knees and legs trembling. She closed her eyes and forced herself to take deep breaths. The details did not matter, she told herself. She had succeeded in what she had set out to do. He was dead. She had avenged her true husband and her murdered children and her living ones were safe. She was Queen in her own right now and no one would be in a position to question what had happened. Her heartbeat steadied a fraction and then a little more. She would rule until Orestes was ready to take his place on the throne as rightful king, one who would be kind, fair and just to all his subjects.
Visions of a brighter future were playing out in her mind, when a creak caused her eyes to snap open. There, in the doorway, stood Cassandra.
“What are you doing here?” Clytemnestra bolted across the room. “Leave. Leave at once.”
The girl didn’t move.
“The King told me I was to join him here,” she replied. “He said that the three of us would bathe together.”
Clytemnestra would have been repulsed at the thought, but she had little time to dwell on the matter.
“The King is preoccupied,” she said, placing her hands on the girl’s chest to push her back. But Cassandra was quick footed, her dry feet more secure on the tiles than Clytemnestra’s wet, blood-soaked ones. In an instant, the young girl was standing by the bathtub, looking down at the axe and the dead King that it was buried in. Clytemnestra’s heart skipped a beat.