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

by Hannah Lynn

  “It was an accident,” she babbled. “It was just an accident.”

  A chuckle arose from Cassandra, soft at first, then louder and louder, until tears streamed down her cheeks. It was the first time she had heard her laugh, or seen even the smallest hint of emotion in her face, yet the sound brought her no comfort at all.

  “No, no it was not, but oh, there have been so many men in my short time on this earth who I wished would have an accident like this one,” she said, leaning over the body. “You have done it. You have done what you were always going to do.”

  “You are talking nonsense!”

  “Am I? Please, do not think me that naïve. Do not imagine I have not considered killing him myself. Killing any and all of them. But, for me, it would have meant an immediate death sentence, even if I had succeeded. This was not an accident, but what will happen next…” She became serious. “That saddens me. It saddens me that my journey ends now. I think, perhaps, had things been different, you and I could have even been friends. After all, I would have said whatever you wished me to, My Queen. Whatever story you wished to spin, I would have agreed to. I could even have been a witness for you. I would have done so, for you.”

  Clytemnestra’s skin tingled with goose bumps.

  “I am sorry about what happened to your daughter,” Cassandra continued, walking towards her. “I cannot imagine what that must have been like.”

  “You are right, you cannot, so please do not humour me with your attempts.”

  She nodded slowly, as if only half hearing. “Gods are strange beings, are they not? So, so powerful, it makes you wonder why they even bother with us at all. But I suppose we are like pets to them. Your children, they keep animals, do they not? I believe Iphigenia loved them.”

  “Do not speak of my daughter!”

  “Your husband did not talk to me much,” she continued, ignoring Clytemnestra. “He did not choose me for my power of conversation. No one ever did. He thought me incapable of understanding anything of importance. But I do. All of it. Everything. More than you or he ever will.”

  “You are mad.”

  “No.” Cassandra glowered at the Queen. “Though it would be easier for you if I were. He told me about the temple and how difficult it was for him. How pleased the child had been, once she had learned the true purpose of the visit, to be obeying the will of the goddess.”

  “You are choosing dangerous words now, even for a crazy woman.”

  “No, not crazy. I know what is coming. Just like your daughter, Iphigenia, knew too.”

  “You lie.”

  “Never. Agamemnon only spoke to me of her the once, after too much wine, which I suppose is not surprising. But it was with the most warmth I had ever heard him use about anyone. He was so proud of her. Of the strength she had shown, as she knelt before the altar, knowing it would be her final prayer. She made the act so much easier for him.”

  “No! No!” The blood rushed to Clytemnestra’s head and she felt the room spinning. “You lie. She did not know what was coming. He would not have told her. He could not have been so cruel as to let his own child know she was walking to her death.”

  “What is cruel about knowing your fate? She chose how to accept it. Just as I am now. Not screaming, not fearful, but in the same manner in which she had lived her life. Peacefully.”

  Nausea churned in Clytemnestra’s gut. “She did not know. She could not have known.”

  “Why are you so upset by this news?” Cassandra frowned. “This should be of the greatest comfort to you. Surely it was better that way. That she gave herself willingly to the goddess, for her father’s cause, rather than be snatched from life, with no hope of making her peace with the world? The honour was so much the greater.”

  “The honour? There is no honour in the death of a child.”

  “I am sorry that you see it that way.”

  The condescension in her voice brought the Queen to new heights of anger. How dare she, a woman, no, a mere girl with no child of her own, speak to her of such things?

  “You talk of honour,” she spat. “You, who sold yourself to the highest bidder.”

  “You think I had a choice? You are not that naïve, dear Clytemnestra. My sisters, my mother, we were the spoils of war. Do not pretend to be ignorant of what happens, when we both know that is far from the truth.”

  She could barely hear her now, for the blood pounding in her ears.

  “You wore the saffron robe. You sat on my throne and gazed out at my subjects, as if they were your own. You took my chamber, without a glimmer of remorse. You may not have had a choice in who took you, but you chose to act the part.”

  “Tell me then, how should I have behaved? I had a role to play. Surely you see that? All we ever have are the roles they force us to play.”

  “I do not believe that.”

  “Then what would you have had me do? Refuse his orders? Refuse to sit at his side?”

  “Yes! Yes, you could have done that.”

  “And if I had. Would you have stood by me? Who would have protected me? You have a family. And a lover. I, as you are so keen to point out, am just a spoil of war. We have been fighting the same battle, Clytemnestra, against gods and kings and people with power and privilege. They are so terrified of losing their control over us, that they crush us at the slightest sign of our own independence or happiness. I am on your side, Clytemnestra. I always have been.”

  “There is only one side I stand on, and you are not there.”

  Cassandra stepped forwards, hands reaching out, but the Queen swung her arm to block her, pushing the girl to the side. It was not a strong blow, far more moderate than she would have used even playing with her children. But the girl was not built like them, and the tiled floor was slick with spilled water and blood. She began to topple, arms flying out in an attempt to regain her balance. But, as her feet slipped away and she fell backwards, her head smacked hard against the edge of the bath with a sickening crack and she slumped to the floor. Dead.

  Part II

  Chapter 27

  “Orestes! Orestes!”

  He felt his shoulders being shaken and heard the voice in his ear, but there was a disconnect, caused by the blanket of a deep sleep in which he wished to remain.

  “Orestes, you must get up now! Now! Get your things. We need to go.”

  “Electra?”

  He opened his eyes, to find his sister leaning over him, hers wide in alarm.

  “What is it? What are you doing?”

  “You must get up straight away. We must leave. It is not safe here.”

  “I do not understand.” Blinking, he shrugged away the shroud of sleep, finally registering the horror on his sister’s face. “Father? Mother? Where are they? What has happened? Where is Chrysothemis?”

  “There is no time for that now. Please, Orestes, all that matters is you. We can get away, but we have to go immediately.”

  Stumbling to his feet, he looked around the bed chamber. It seemed like it always did: spacious, yet warm and comforting. In these four walls, nothing had changed, but then he heard the distant screams, echoing from down the corridor.

  “Electra, what has happened?”

  “I will tell you as soon as we are safe.”

  With that, she grabbed him around the shoulders and forced him out of the doorway. Servants were running back and forth, many pale and weeping, while some stood in groups, comforting one another with hushed words. In the shadows, he saw a familiar figure, crouched low against the wall, beckoning them.

  “Laodamia? What is going on?” he asked. “What is happening?”

  Without so much as acknowledging his question, the maid spoke to Electra.

  “I do not know if this is the right thing to do,” she said, handing her a bundle of clothes. “Perhaps we should wait.”

  “It is the right thing to do,” she assured her. “The only thing we can do. Is everything arranged?”

  Pale and unsure, Laodamia nodded quickl
y. “Orrin is waiting by the Lion Gate. He will take you from there. Do not stop. Do not speak to anyone. Just get to the gate as quickly as you can.”

  “Thank you. Thank you.”

  Electra moved to go, but Laodamia caught her by the hand. “This is not for long, is it? She loves you all, you know that. How long will you be gone?”

  “As long as needs be,” she replied.

  Together, with cloaks pulled up over their heads, they scurried out of the palace and through the citadel. Whatever tragedy had struck, it appeared to have been confined to the palace. The streets were empty, shutters fixed and lamps burning in an eerie stillness. Shuddering against the cold, Orestes raced onward, dragged faster than he could comfortably manage by Electra, whose hand gripped his wrist painfully. Where was Chrysothemis, he wanted to ask again. And where were his mother and father in all this? There were things he should do. Protocols to keep him safe, if the citadel were under attack. Fleeing like this with Electra had never been one of them. When they reached the Lion Gate, Orrin was there on his horse, just as Laodamia had said; beside him waited a second mount.

  “We must hurry,” he urged them. “They are waiting for you.”

  Without a word, Electra pushed Orestes up into the saddle, then scrambled up behind him and kicked the animal into action with her heels. They galloped away from the citadel. Away from their home.

  When the lights had faded into pinpricks to the south, Orestes tried again.

  “What has happened?” he demanded. “Where are we going?”

  “We are heading across the sea.”

  “Where to?”

  She did not reply, but gripped him tighter and urged the horse to move even faster. Then somehow, without being told, he knew.

  “Is our father dead?” The words tumbled from his lips. When again she didn’t reply, he asked, “What about Mother? Was she spared? Did they kill her too? Who was it? Who did it?”

  “There is not the time for this now,” she said. “We will talk later. First we must board the ship.” She kicked her heels again and they sped north into the night.

  The Gulf of Corinth that nearly severed the southern part of Greece from the rest of the country was calm, but Orestes was unaccustomed to being on the water, even for a short period. In the days before the war, when he was still a baby in his mother’s arms, he had been on trips across the Aegean. He had visited the homes of kings and cousins throughout the region, but he had no memory of this. In more recent summer months, when the family—which at that time had included Aegisthus—would head to the shore to paddle in the cool shallows, they would see the local children heading out over the waves, on rafts they had built themselves, trying to catch fish with old bread and coarsely knotted nets. He had listened to their shrieks of delight on the rare occasions when Poseidon had granted them a catch, and ached with disappointment for them, when their trophy slipped between their fingers and back into the sea, before they’d even had a chance to gauge its size. He would have loved to take part in their fun but he was not a local child and, should something have happened to him, the repercussions would have been more than simply a mother’s broken heart. Then, as now, he had to be protected at all costs.

  As soon as they had boarded, he had been ushered down below deck and shut away in a tiny cabin, with only a small, hard bed for comfort. The air was clammy and smelt of sea salt and dried fish and he struggled to know whether his sweating was due to the heat or his fear. So many times, he had longed for the day when he might stand on a ship and cast his gaze out at a great expanse of water, the way so many princes had done before him. So many times, he had imagined setting sail and watching Mycenae disappearing over the horizon. But never had he dreamt it would be like this.

  The sound of waves against the wooden hull made him nervous: the irregularity of the hammering; the constant crescendos and diminuendos. It was impossible not to feel on edge and relax. He was safe there, he told himself repeatedly. Ships set sail every day. Hundreds of them, probably. But how often did they leave like this one had, on a cloud-covered night with no light to guide them? he wondered.

  He positioned himself on the edge of the bed, with his feet flat on the floor, and tried to go with the swaying motion, but soon found that didn’t help and laid down again. How many hours sleep had there been, before Electra had woken him? Not many. And none at all since they had set sail. How long ago was that now?

  As he debated whether he should try sitting up again, the door to his cabin creaked open and his sister stepped in.

  “Mount Parnassus is in sight,” she said. “We will be ashore soon and then make our way to Phocis.”

  “Phocis?” He frowned.

  “King Strophius is there. He will protect us. He is Father’s brother. We will be safe there, until we are ready to act.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His question was met once again with silence. A knot was forming in his belly. He had another question, which he had been unable to ask. One he feared he already knew the answer to.

  “It was Mother, was it not?”

  Electra pushed the door closed behind her.

  “I am sorry, Orestes. I know you still have feelings for her.”

  “Feelings?” He frowned. “She is our mother. She raised us. She loves us.”

  “And yet she killed her own husband to give her lover the throne.”

  “No!” He moved to stand, but the ship lurched, and he nearly fell. Clutching a beam, he took a moment to balance himself. “You saw how Father abused her. She did what she did to protect herself. To protect us.”

  She sniffed dismissively. “No, she did what she did because she is weak and easily manipulated. Because she let herself be overcome with lust for a man who was not her husband. She put him above her own family. Aegisthus came to Mycenae with one intention—to take our father’s crown, the same way he took our grandfather’s. Believe me, he intends to destroy our family. He never cared for her. For any of us.”

  “That is not true.” Orestes felt heat building behind his eyes. He adored his sister. She was his closest sibling and greatest confidante, but he had never understood why she had been so against Aegisthus, when all he had done was show them kindness. He refused to think ill of the man who had treated him like a son these past four years.

  “You must take me back,” he said, struggling to keep himself upright. “There are things you do not understand.”

  “Things I do not understand?” Her jaw locked and eyebrows arched. “Oh, please, little brother, pray tell: what is it that you might know, that I do not? At twelve years of age, what insight do you have into the mind of our deceitful, murderous mother that has somehow escaped me, at eighteen?”

  Orestes felt himself shrink at her outburst. He had been sworn to secrecy, for no other reason than protecting his siblings. But how could she understand their mother’s actions, when she didn’t know the truth?

  “Please, let us return. I am safe with her. We are both safe with her.”

  “We are not going back!” Her gaze narrowed. “What is it you are not telling me, Orestes? Did you know of the plan?”

  “Of course not! I would never even have dreamt of such an act.”

  “Then what is it? There is something you are not telling me.”

  There seemed no way of prevaricating. With Electra’s tenacity, he knew she would get the answer from him, one way or another. Swallowing hard, he gripped the beam again to steady himself.

  “I only learned of it last year, at the Festival of Thargelia. You know how Mother always found it difficult praying to the Goddess Artemis after she had taken Iphigenia.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It is the same excuse she uses all the time for her bad attitude. Women have lost far more than a single child, yet do not choose to milk the bereavement the way she has these last ten years.”

  “But that is exactly it. That is what you do not understand. She has lost more than that.”

  “What are you talking about?
”

  There was no going back now. Aegisthus would understand. Orestes was only breaking his word to him so that he could return to his mother’s side.

  “At the last Thargelia, Mother sent the snake charmer to see us, do you remember? She said it was for all of us, but I knew it was really for me. You know how I love snakes.”

  “Please, get to the point.”

  “Well, she could barely leave her chamber that day. She knew Calchas’ prophecy was close to fruition, that the war would soon end and Father would return. I was angry with her for not spending time with me, but Aegisthus stayed by my side. He ate and drank and held the snakes with me. And, when I called our mother unkind names for being absent, that was when he told me about what had happened to her first husband, and her first son, our half-brother. They were killed, Electra. Father murdered them, so that he could take her for his own.”

  He waited, expecting her to be shocked, perhaps even shedding a tear for their lost sibling. Instead, she merely shrugged.

  “So?” she asked.

  “So?” He searched her face for any trace of sympathy or understanding, but found none. She merely stood there, her hand on the hilt of the dagger that she always kept sheathed at her hip. “Surely you can see she was terrified of him? Then he took Iphigenia from her too. Now do you understand that she only did what she did, because she thought she had no other choice? She was frightened it would not be long until he took another one of us.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she dismissed this with a snort. “These were Aegisthus’ words, a man who had already usurped the throne once.”

  “They were the truth, Electra. He swore on the gods it was the truth.”

  At the mention of the gods, his sister paused. Another swell lifted the ship and dropped it suddenly back down again. While Orestes struggled to keep his feet, Electra seemed to not even notice the motion.